Deep Philosophical Bullshit

Get out your pens, because you can’t make a mistake and there will be a test after all is said and done.

In a word, authenticity. Existentialism at its core means we determine our thoughts, actions in this crazy, mixed-up world. Left out of the above picture is Jean-Paul Sarte, the man credited with first coining the word and philosophy of existentialism. You’ll probably recognize him from his likeness on the Haitian flag…

That was a joke. He’s not on the flag. I also don’t think he has any Haitian features. These blogs are getting harder to write, but that word, authentic, it’s a word that can be so inspiring or vile, but either way, the adherence should be respected. Like it or not, but that serial killer who can’t get away from wearing pink chiffon dresses with fishnet stockings who only goes after bearded guys who smoke pipes, well, he stays true and fits neatly into his jigsaw piece in the puzzle of life.

All the above though should be read, at least one per author. This lesson of we make ourselves, it plays out a crazy story line in my life. My surroundings, my traumas, my broken heart never made me put a needle in my arm. A funny thing happened though when I read another loosely existential book, the Big Book, it dawned on me that my essence where all cultivated by my actions. There was no blame game. even though I tried my damnedest to create a herd of scapegoats.

I was incapable of facing my problems head on, to quote Nietzsche:

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

Now I feel like that nothingness, and I don’t know what to do. I used to sum up my life in a single sentence, I was a heroin-addicted pharmacist, who spent a year in federal prison and couldn’t stop until 12 years later when I tried to kill myself and found rehab in the aftermath. 

December 18th, 2015 I hit the milestone of 18 months without using. A lot went into making that happen, too many God/guardian angel interventions (all are recounted though in Shoestring Theories, my memoir, available by clicking the title in fact 🙂 ), lots of coincidences, which I define as  acts of God where he keeps his anonymity in tact, an amazing list of friends and more than anything, becoming an authentic human being. I got honest with myself, another human being and God. That 10-ton bag of bullshit I had been lugging around with me was gone, and let me tell you how much easier it is to walk around without that weighing me down. Life just got better.

I was blessed with the great fortune of waking up today, of getting enough pain killers in my system so I can actually write an entire blog in one sitting and not curling up into the fetal position, just another thing to be grateful for. I’m surrounded by people that love me. I get these phone calls daily, from friends who are in complete shock when they hear why just exactly I am feeling like an abyss these days. I’m dying. And what can you possibly reply to that statement?

I don’t want to be that hushed whisper that’s on the other foot- it used to be ‘he’s a junkie.’ Now it’s, ‘Can you believe Mike’s cancer is going to kill him?’ Authenticity, til the end. I’m not changing, I am still grateful for every morning my ryrs open, for when I have an appetite there’s food to eat, for Holly providing a roof over my head, for the chance to talk to someone and be as much of a help as I can. I’m still the Mike that sent his Michigan State Spartans fan the joke: what does MSU football and marijuana have in common?  Both are green and get smoked in bowls. I told him I am willing my Big Book to him, signed even, because he goes to a fellowship that uses a different set of books.

I know it’s hard on my family. A family who prayed for years that I quit shooting heroin and just find happiness. Well, family, I have. As tough as it is to write any of this, I am peaceful, I am joyous. To all my friends whose support never dies down (terrible pun, shoot me, that’s even worse, I’m shutting down this parenthetical now), I’m grateful you all, even you Eugene. To the man that help forge the man writing this blog, that inspired me to write more with his compliments, Greg, I love you. To Eli, the man who gave me my 1-year medallion, we’re NOT watching the Steelers playoffs. To any of you I call friends, and there are so many of you, I love all of you.

And for shit’s sake, I’m not dead yet. I’m taking every precious second God is giving me. I’m going to be greedy. And of all the shit we put a value on, platinum, gold, silver, Pat C’s mom, diamonds, cars, brand name clothes, all of that stuff added together will never be as valuable as life is. Take that from this blog. The rest, I’ll get back to you all on it.

BONUS: Mike’s Reading List of the Pictured

The Stranger – Camus

The Metamorphosis- Kafka

Being and Nothingness- Sarte

Shoestring Theories- Janflone

Beyond Good and Evil- Nietzsche

The Sickness Unto Death-  Søren Kierkegaard

Notes From Underground- Dostoyevsky

Just thank you all for praying for me, thinking of me, liking me, loving me, just knowing me. God willing, I’ll be around for a long while.

Peace and 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

Guilty Bystanders

Well, it’s been an interesting few days. Thanks to the over 400 people who stopped by to read about an occurrence all too common down here. One of my favorite things I heard was it’s none of my business, that if I were working a program, I’d ignore this person’s bullshit. I was labeled passive aggressive, probably accurately, because that is something I tend to do.

So, let me be a little more clear this time around. If I have already eaten a Five Guys burger, and get a second one on my way out, you know, just for later, and I see a cachexic human being digging through the dumpster, I sure as fuck better give that person my other greasy Godsend. It’s beyond right, it tears at that part of me that is instantly taken back, to those moments when I would look over my shoulder, make sure no one is looking, before I picked up a half eaten bagel from behind a Dunkin Donuts, because my options were just that dire. Desperation, acutely primal, yet incomprehenibly vain. Really Mike, you are starving to death, haven’t showered in days, and you have the gall to look around ONE more time to make sure no one sees another secret?

Isn’t that addiction at its core though, fear.? Scared to death to be rejected, to fail, to face the consequences, to admit a multitude of mistakes. The truth terrified me- when I was sick. When I wanted to pretend I had my shit so together even though I was shattered. When I was married, my then wife actually pulled up my sleeve, and I lied straight to her face, that I had given blood once, or another time I had used a syringe to gather ink for a journal entry. Yeah, I was that sick I wrote in my own blood. Tell a bigger lie with a lesser truth, that was my way of convincing myself I had nothing to hide.

Working steps, I faced my self-perceived inadequacies, have made amends wherever possible, and keep my slate clean daily, and make sure I erase my marks daily. The alternative will be the end of me this time around, no doubt about it, I can’t go back to heroin. I can’t smoke a joint, do a line of cocaine, or have a beer. The misery of that life…no way. The gift of grace is only given so often, and who do I think I am to throw that back in God’s face?

As has bore out across the nation, addiction is not some slap on the wrist disease. More people overdose and die than are killed in auto accidents. That doesn’t include the incredible number of near misses thanks to Narcan and quick action of first responders. It could be so much worse.

That blog, it was written because of all this. If it were someone I saw drink some beers during a football game one weekend, then pick up a year the next weekend, that’s none of my business. Maybe that person hasn’t made the concession to self that he/she is an addict. Maybe they are a problem drinker. Not my inventory to take. When actions however directly affect others, putting those looking for help in a situation where they get nothing even resembling assistance, well, do I sit around and say, none of my fucking business? In case anyone missed it, I’m not going to let that person pick through the dumpster.

Just like I am not going to walk by someone being strangled, I’m not going to just say, “Hey, that person probably had it coming.” When a situation is blatantly wrong, and lives are at risk, it’s everyone’s responsibility to speak up. When greed wrecks a system that could have helped so many more people down the line, well, shame on me for not speaking up even more so than allowing places to get away with $3000 urine tests.

I’ve dealt with enough shame in my lifetime.

I’m not going  to sit around pretending there isn’t a mother and father sitting up in New Jersey right now, praying for their son or daughter to get help. That right now, they think that anguished scream to God was finally heard as their child says, “Please help me,”and South Florida is the answer. I don’t want their moment of relief to be one of agony a few months later, because instead of the kid relapsing, then going back through the cycle of detox and IOP, they’re coming down here to collect the body.

No, I am going to speak the fuck up. If that bothers anyone, I am not sorry at all. What would a father say if they knew their daughter reached out for help and instead of that, it was deemed cool to stay there, to shoot dope as long as she gave it up and slept in the same bed. How the fuck is that helpful?

The reality of it is there are a lot of people in recovery that are dangerous to those who really want a new life. Shoot your steroids, fuck as many vulnerable women as you can, rape insurances, pretend this is all okay because that’s what ‘everyone’ does. Not everyone lives in such a selfish way. Sorry, there are great rehabs. halfways, great sponsors. I’m not condemning you if you take any of this and get all up in your feelings over it, because it’s Marathon Man dentistry and that pain comes from inside. Is it safe? 

Not at all, but I am not even close to alone in this fight.

In fact, there are so many people earning an honest living down here, that run rehabs and halfways where the goal is recovery that I consider this place home. There are men and women who take others through the steps, that put Step 12 in front of everything, that endeavor to live a spiritual life, not just 60 minutes at a meeting, but all the other waking hours as well. They walk the talk. Those who have been there for me, that have showed me how to live a selfless life and give back. God-given.

-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…

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

Independent Breaks #4

You really should read from the beginning….

Kicking ass and forgetting the names. I am a liar, don’t remember my mentor, but he’s with me still. I’m a charmer, a slick talking leech. I construct my dreams on sand and patiently wait for an act of God to wash it away. Hey God, there’s blood stains everywhere. Thumbs down on your laundry skills. Isn’t Billy Mays up there? Ask him about OxyClean. Now I have to start from scratch. My solace is that they’re way better off, choose better next time ladies. Justify the wrecking ball with a life lesson. I’d apologize, but I’m consumed by picking scabs, by deepening the wound. I need to dig you out of me. What do you do when the company you need gets stale and gray? Can’t be alone but I can’t stand you. The perfect excuse, always have a plan H. My back burner bitch, always there for me. It’s not so bad being all alone with her. With warmth covering me. Take time to notice the small things, but the walls have cracks… something has to give, my tainted soul can’t hold in much longer.

-MFJ

The office space looked as enclosed as my twisted mindset, withdrawn and counterproductive
Flying thoughts circulating in the confined space of my head

I’m rattling my own cage to get out

Where to go however? I know I’m not safe anywhere

Alone, in a busy structure provides no safety,
The echoes of haunting memories of his hallow screams blasting through my ears

I want to pull my hair out as if that could make it stop.

My thumb nail, strong and lustrous digs deeper into my index until a raw, burgundy leak springs

A child alone no longer plays in mud but in my own disappointments of life

Capping one mishap and unveiling another

In most forms, they take shape of a man

He always looks the same, tall frame with dark husky eyes

Eyes that will lie to me but yet I live in that darkness

I love in that chaos

And I die when he leaves, every time.

Back here, I return.

” Welcome Love, it’s been ______ since last time, my, the weight you’ve lost, don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.. We always do.”

The door shuts.

-GS

Status Updates

Let’s see, Shoestring Theories is number 2269 in memoirs on Kindles…51289 in print, with zero marketing.  Get to Amazon.com and buy that already! I have a marketer. I have about a million ideas on how to do it, and my life is moving too fast to catch a breath, let alone harness and develop an idea. Reality is I am kind of sick of me, and I am slow to communicate. So I have rested up, after an awesome trip home, where I was reunited with friends and family I hadn’t seen in at least 4 1/2 years. What’s humbling about the whole experience is the love and support, from people I screwed over, trusts I abused, and welcomes I wore microns thin, so much so that ants fell straight through.

That all said, one of the more satisfying things I have just launched from the shoreline of concepts into the ever-deepening ocean of pen to paper status, or data to hard drive, is getting Mind Shrapnel up and running. After all, I have plenty of time for that. For the few of you I am talking to, have patience, I need to get my plan together and then spend some time with other creative people who write with purpose. One is a guy I met at a halfway back a long, long time ago, who stayed clean this whole time while I took a path that melted GPS circuitry just enough to detour me everywhere but my destination. Since I was just home in the Burgh, detours may be a running theme for a minute or two.

The other person, whether she realizes it or not, is helping me get through writer’s block, and I am going to put it out here as a serial blog, a back and forth prose type thing between two strangers going through similar relationship issues. The cool thing about it is the fact that there is no direction, I write one, she writes one back, not an answer, but drawing some inspiration from the previous writer’s words. Confusing, maybe, but I’m launching that tomorrow I am thinking.

Which brings me to what I was really going to write about, status.

•  adj. conferring or believed to confer elevated status
• n. the position of an individual in relation to another or others, especially in regard to social or professional standing.

It’s weird living in South Florida. People spend $600,000 on a swimming pool and backyard kitchen. People are judged by material things. They travel the globe to experience life, but only the places with a Ritz-fucking Carlton, because well, you can’t get too in touch with reality. Certainly native people, living in conditions beyond ghastly would just fuck up that wanderlust. I’m thinking of opening a restaurant where I only serve a party of 4 max. $20,000 per couple. Maybe dredge up my infamous, once a year, heart attack inducing hot dog of pure gluttony…the one that is wrapped in bacon, then deep-fried. Except before I batter dip it, it needs stuffed with foie gras, then topped with Kobe beef chili, Cheez Whiz, creme fraiche (to class it back up after using  the Whiz) and homemade Fritos, the corn picked by some illegal immigrant, stone ground by a family member of the illegal…I’ve said too much.

Point is, this journey in life, where all I want is to get to downtown, but I am stuck in Carnegie for 3 hours, I’ve gained perspective. I’ve tried to fill up the void in my heart, that place where understanding is realized, with a mental mishmash of artificial joys. We are shown happiness is a killer body, so women starve themselves when they were gorgeous in the first place. If you’re not hot, defined by fashion, tv, pop music and movies, well then, you must be a terrible person. I have news for you though, I don’t need to see your pelvis, I don’t want it cutting me if something ever happens. People die chasing a lie. I don’t give two shits who made your purse, how much your shoes cost, or where you got your ‘work’ done. I’m not going to shoot steroids to get big. and destroy my kidneys eating 2 grams of protein per pound of body weight.

I chased it all. I get it. I’ve had a lot in my life before too. I’ve had beautiful women who feel ugly, I’ve met flawless people who are disgustingly arrogant and hollow. I’ve been well off, had a bunch of stuff. Yet, nothing changed, that hole inside didn’t fill, it got torn wider. Over and over, I chased artificial happiness, in women, in cars, in nice clothes, and most certainly heroin. For me, the selfish, asset chasing, emotion erasing dick head almost killed me. The whiny bitch boy who cried about what he didn’t have turpentined his surroundings into an empty canvas, where my problems were the sole focus. Yes, I made a noun a verb. Artistic license.

I endeavor to be selfless daily. It starts with being grateful for another sunrise, another breath, the ability to have all my senses function, to have an army of love behind me, and more importantly, inside me. I don’t need to impress anyone with a shirt that costs more than a family of four spends on food for a week. Shit is made out of cotton, that logo means dick all. In fact, given the fact some 7-year-old in Paraguay made it at the end of his 14 hour, $0.75 shift, that would make me a supporter of greed, a cog keeping the system churning and ultimately, retarded because I’d believe a tiny embroidered square makes me a better human being than the next guy in his plain white t-shirt.

When I am grateful, I see what others don’t have, and when opportunity to help rings the doorbell, the door is already open. That not only keeps me clean and sober, it keeps me full of joy.

Peace and Love,
MFJ

Get Well Soon

Hopeless, self-destructive, desperate behavior repeated daily for years, decades, well, the prognosis is always going to appear beyond poor – he/she will fail . I’ve heard it, I’ve whispered that back to the angel who dangled from my shoulder, rope fraying while the devil made the trip over with a knife to hasten the fall.

No doubt he fell, but it’s exactly why angels have wings. There are inevitable collapses, breaches of trust that split into continental divides. Words can’t become tectonic, but a little work can move some rocks from here to there. People can change; I know this, because I am different. Various kudos I have gotten from therapists, counselors, and souls temporarily in contact with mine at the time:

You’ll be dead by 30.
You’ll never stop using if you don’t quit now.
You’re a lost cause Michael.
You’ve wasted so much talent, so much ability for heroin.
You love drugs more than me. You threw it all away.
Michael, you’re dead to me, and you will be soon enough to the world.

Yet, here I am. Flying home in 3 days. To see family and friends. To give back, attempt to make things right. I am vigilant in my gratitude, it keeps me grounded, it reminds me to be selfless.

So never give up hope if you love one of us. If you are me, I can’t stop the descent. I can tell you though there’s no reason to keep digging any deeper. I pray you understand. Fix yourself by climbing out of that hole, and I promise you there will be a lot of people who will help get you back on your feet. It just has to be that way.

Peace, love and enlightenment to all,
MFJ

Buy a copy of Shoestring Theories by clicking HERE

Homecoming/Killing Time

I think I am from some other era, that my fascination for The Knick has something to do with who I was some other time. Wrapping my head around time and space, souls in continuum, pulling on strings, warping realities into the present. We emerge from our future tainted by the past, working to right wrongs from days of yore, because why else do I want an old typewriter?

Souls never die, and for all the bullshit in this world, apparently mine went through a similar, just unreported saga of pain and despair. Humanity is always rolling on in a quest for more, more wealth, more pleasure, more distractions to shift focus from failure to artificial success. Sometimes time comes undone, and we bounce from a string and the tune changes. We hear something perfectly composed, see someone so beautiful, seconds unwind and transcend their predefined durations. In those moments, true crossroads are reached, and direction is mapped out by gut instinct.

Maybe it’s about paying attention, or avoiding one more slip and fall because dusting off isn’t as fun as tunneling deeper into hiding. I am a little bit guilty of some crimes, and fully convicted for others, but how I define sin these days wipes some of the slate clean. The dragon scorches the future while the succubus hides in the past to punish the present. I get this is one big riddle without my borders defined, but I’ve been no where truly new.

The shame-filled narcissist got exposed under the cover of death, but there is always something out of control when it deals with that, and when repetition only makes something worse and worse, trees always make a lot of noise when they fall, so don’t come at me with pointless musings, it’s time to find an approach a little less novel.

Today’s transgressions are tallied by breaches of integrity, in rejection of grace, in believing there isn’t a point to any of this life or the next.

There will always be those with greater intelligence, with more wit and cleverness, those who own one more exotic good than the man desperate to escape a societal shadow. There will always be a piece of flesh more flawless, sculpted and worldly beautiful than what lies next to you.

What will one be willing to do to shine in a desert, to drink from a mirage of value, or just flee the scene?  More, more and it will never be enough, since life loses purpose when the lie is achieved. Some golf claps and jealous leers, we all fall down, and seldom choose to get up again and change direction.

A direction overgrown from lack of traffic. Ferraris don’t idle here, but men most certainly do. Stuck searching for clarity, but they can’t see the beauty all around thrm, instead looking for a GPS guided prayer to the quickest route over concrete.

It’s perspective that leaves me enlightened, that whatever I did way back when, I’m done paying for in splits of time. Selfless love, where flaws are intrinsically beautiful, where weakness provides immaculate chances to overcome. Learning never ends, growing more unimaginable by the lesson applied to life. That is something worth pursuing, because her beauty absorbs traits that will never stop blooming.

Until we meet, I’m alright, living ion my own two feet, walking wide-eyed and in wonder of all this mystery deemed life.

7/28/15
MFJ

True Love Starts Here

Yes, it starts most definitely with Scarlett.
No, that’s completely wrong.

Seriously, relationships are legitimate killers, especially in recovery. Scenarios I have lived through, thank God:

• A lot of us have been here: Rehab romance aka medline love. Let’s see, rehab 1-Tiffany, length of the relationship- 3 days. Basis: sex, drugs, and I don’t remember her taste in music, but let’s go with rock and roll. Rehab 2-Jess, length of relationship: 18 days. Basis: Sex, while in inpatient, some drugs I snuck in after being allowed to go to Pittsburgh, but no rock and roll. Rehab 3- Christina- Length of relationship- ballpark it around 3-4 months. Basis: Sex and poetry. In fact, as fate would have it, I have a poetry collection you can buy here, called Loco Motive(s). The drugs came separately and independent from each other. Please note, while I experienced longer relationships, they all ended, with drug usage.
• I go to meetings, I really get this, so we should get together and talk recovery, and fall in love after we fuck. For brevity’s sake, I’ve been here, too many times. These are the ones that sting, because the fall is quick and complete, head over heels soulmate shit. Life looks normal, we get an apartment together, we work, we spend every minute we can together. Average time to a needle in my arm, if it wasn’t already there, few months, except for Beth, where we hit 4-5 months, and both held together. We of course reunited when I fell off the wagon, and she wanted to do the same, which is a whole other purely insane thing, and ironically, bullet point #3.
• Let’s do drugs together and have sex and convince ourselves its legit love. I have a memoir if you didn’t know it already, called Shoestring Theories, you can buy by clicking here, that summarizes these relationships, and from a purely physical sensation point of view, they are awesome. Until the heroin or drug use becomes so bad, sex isn’t a desire, or I couldn’t avoid nodding off in terrible, umm, positions.

By the way, DAF, my hopefully most recent and last institution, was inpatient rehab #5. I fell in love with nobody from there. I stayed away from lunchtime note passing and the “can’t wait to see you on the outside” bullshit. It wasn’t repetition that taught me any of this, although you would think it most certainly would have. Addiction is varying degrees of insanity, numerously manifested afflictions, and I can so easily lose myself in a relationship as easily as heroin.

Tinder blogs? There’s always an element of truth in a lie, or a funny blog.

What’s different?

Me. No one completes me. Sorry Hollywood, romance novel writers, today I am looking for someone who compliments me, and I don’t mean tells me I am an awesome writer or cook. I want someone who mirrors me, who has self-respect, self-esteem, and is selfless. Who doesn’t beat herself up for past sins, and wants to share life together. In short, we not only accept each other for who we are, but we admire each other for who we strive to become. Like attracts like.

Full disclosure- I am not a saint, i.e. the Tinder stuff, I never mislead anyone though, and I have had some ups and downs, but I have always been honest, to the women and to myself. I have gone out with “normies,” I’ve gone out with addicts off drugs, and I am still around, at peace. I’ve been on dates strictly on looks, and others on personalities and smarts. I have the clarity to never react to another person’s actions or decisions, but respect them.

The conclusion: I have seen so many struggle with relationships, and I did this for years. Decades. Read  the memoir. I defined co-dependent and dysfunctional, without drugs. That’s why things are different. I call myself recovered due to working the steps, and living in 10, 11, and 12 daily, to stay, and strengthen my spiritual connection. I don’t have to feel insecure about anything. I am confident, not arrogant. I am peaceful, not lazy. While I have hopes for a future with someone, that’s not up to me, and I won’t ignore what’s right in front of my face waiting. No one defines me, I get to do that for myself, and it’s why the way I am, I feel and don’t ever have to feel less than because as long as God’s will and mine are aligned, my actions are going to put me exactly where I need to be at this very moment.

I love me, for every fault and strength, for every vulnerability and asset. That’s where true love really begins, on the inside.

Peace and Love,
MFJ