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Malibu

The Garden

It sure is odd living in Malibu again.  As if the past 18 months in Hollywood just never happened.   It has been raining and chilly all day today.  The gardeners came yesterday.  8 of them buzzing around the property dealing with the last 18 months worth of growth.  Today they returned to attack the larger trees and make them fire proof.  Lets face it though..there are no fires imminent.  This year has been British damp.  Poor little dog is shivering on the sofa.

12 people for lunch yesterday.  I flayed a chicken and cooked it with rosemary and lemons from the garden.

A great bunch.  Lots of love.  Surrounded by a great deal of unconditional love and conversation.  JAR and me are about the same age and have trodden the same path for many, many years but only really met here in LA.  She is possibly one of the most gorgeous women in the world.  Beautiful on the outside and equally beautiful on the inside.

It was a wonderful welcome back to Malibu.  Tomorrow night I am having dinner with Jenny A at SHLA.  She just drove from Mexico en route to London.  I am trying to fill my days with old friends.  They seem to more than adequately fill the void.

I am going to Palm Springs this weekend to a gay sober convention.  Meetings, meetings meetings.  Trying to connect with my tribe.  Then, rather annoyingly I have to go to NYC.  I am REALLY not looking forward to that.

When one can peek through at the various secret paths and vistas this place becomes magical.  You know, don’t you that I am putting the house on the market?  I am SURE it’s going to be impossible to sell but hey, let’s try shall we?

If I can get everything here and sell the house I will then try selling everything IN the house.  I wanna get out of here with one small bag of treasure and the Little Dog.

Travel light from now on.  Too much stuff.  Far too much STUFF.  Inside and outside my head.

The best part of that insightful comment I received the other day was the advice about getting strong around my health and finances.  I really have to deal with shit in those areas.

My back aches.  My balls ache.  My head hurts.  My fingers are dry.  My tummy is swollen.  My eyes are sore.

Yet, I am going in the right direction.  I really DO try and make a better life for myself.  I am not going to drink and take drugs but sometimes I think it would be a whole heap easier.  I bet I could meet a drug fucked loser in twenty seconds if I towed the line..went to gym, took drugs, drank at bars.

That was a joke everybody!

Just a joke.

6 replies on “The Garden”

Dear Duncan,

I read your last entry, I Went Too Far, and wept, as I have several times over things you’ve written of late. I weep with understanding and empathy, with familiarity, and a desire to end the pain…yours, mine, all who feel the emptiness and loss you so eloquently and hauntingly describe.

“Battling terrible demons at dawn” is heart breaking and devastating, but God, Duncan, please don’t even joke about taking even one drink to drown out the sorrow. I assure you it would be a futile attempt at getting a day off. Not only would it be futile, it could well lead to further destruction and despair.
I have only myself to hold up as an example of this, and though unsolicited, I’m going to tell you what happened when I took that one drink after 7 years of sobriety. I’ll offer here an abbreviated version of the events as I have neither the time at this moment, nor the inclination, to completely rehash the last year of my life. But I want to share with you in an effort to show you what a mistake it could be.

Some background: After having been abused by a caregiver from age 8 through 11, and starting again at 16, I was diagnosed with HIV in my early 20s. At that point in my life I had no idea how to deal with what had happened. In hindsight, of course, I could have maybe mentioned this horror and dealt with it in a way that mainlined the circuitous route to “normal, healthy adult” I ultimately ended up taking. Instead I slid further and further into a gripping despair that followed me right into the heart of adulthood. Instead I tried desperately to numb the pain by any means necessary. For me, any means was alcohol and eventually other things.

I experienced my great crisis in my 20s when I was diagnosed. Well, I guess it started earlier really, but surely it culminated and became defining then. At that moment in my life I had reached the edge of madness; from that point on my life became an unending desert…a Faustian nightmare…and I began to see the civilized world as a jungle; one in which I was wholly unable to protect myself. The repercussions of that year have reached far and for a long time kept me imprisoned in an unyielding stranglehold. It was all drawn out so woefully. I survived, to be sure, but I was vulnerable to the continual relapse that had me on the verge of terror or in fear of madness.

I was healthy for a long time. I got sober at 30. I had relationships, friendships, a decent career as a writer and editor. I had a life, and I lived it well.

Last year my health started to decline. Some of the meds weren’t working and I was starting to suffer physically and emotionally. The fear was overwhelming. I’d fought hard, and had been fighing for most of my life against one thing or another, and now this.

I couldn’t connect anything. I felt like the synapses in my brain were just firing at will, wildly, madly, with no regard for sense or logic. I started to write maddeningly. The more I wrote, the more manic I became. It kept me awake, which saved me from the Terror for a while but it also made me dizzy and nauseous and fidgety and restless and anxious and stupid. As much as I feared sleep then, I craved it because I didn’t have to deal with the thoughts and decisions and reality. And the pain. I needed to put the emotional pain to rest. I could’ve done without the physical pain as well. It hurt to breathe. And blink. And swallow.

I needed a day off. I took a drink. And then another. It numbed me. It also led me to some bad decisions. I wanted to tell the world to fuck off. I wanted to tell the virus to fuck off. The way to do that, I decided in my haze, was to quit the meds and ignore the disease’s existence.

I wrote obsessively back then. By day, work. By night…well, by night, the wrath in those pages… I became a machine. It was the midnight disease all over again. I rose, I wrote, I slept fitfully, I wrote some more. The afternoons and evenings drifted on the slow river of half dozen or so strong cocktails. And the memories slipped to the bottom of each glass, becoming more distant, less threatening.

One day off led to one week off, and then a month. I was numb, emotionless, but I was getting sicker. Infections starting setting in, the pain got worse. I landed in the hospital on several occasions for various horrors. By the time I came to my senses, quit drinking, and realized I had to face my past, present, and future, by body had paid the toll. I’m still paying.

It’s a year later and I am thankful every day that I have come out the other side of this nightmare. The struggle never completely ends. I still deal with nightmares, and insomnia is still an issue, but it gets easier and easier to work through. I’ve had to reach back 30 years to begin to heal the child I was in order to accept the adult I am. I certainly no longer hate myself, and that’s pretty huge but I will continue to deal with the consequences of drinking and coming off the meds.

It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it, even to joke about.

With good thoughts, I remain, yours sincerely,

Michelle

Michelle,

Your response brought tears to my eyes. First, God bless you and keep you. Secondly, there’s a saying, “Tell the truth and shame the devil” and by courageously telling your truth, you have helped to dispel the pain of despair and addiction by shining the blazing Light of your spirit into the darkness. You remind me of the story of the woman at the well, who, despite being broken, physically, sang like an angel because of the strength in her soul.

I think that by speaking the addictive thoughts out loud, Duncan breaks the spell of them. Sort of the old mystical idea that if you could name something, it gave you power over it. By giving it substance, he can banish the “stinkin’ thinkin'” by confronting it. The demons of fear and loathing and the voices of addiction. To borrow the philosophy of the book about learning all we needed to know about living life from the rules in kindergarten… if we hold each others’ hands while we try to find our way on the path, we’ll get to our destination safer and happier. Thank you for holding out your hand to Duncan and all of us.

Blessings,

Amanda

Duncan,

You said “When one can peek through at the various secret paths and vistas this place becomes magical.” You are so blessed to be surrounded by so much beauty. Let it feed your soul. In the early morning, when the light softens everything as if God was creating the world anew by painting it with watercolors, maybe you can try the meditation technique of contemplation. Just fill your eyes with the wonder around you and let your heart feel that magic. Just absorb it as if you could melt into the landscape… the beautiful trees, flowers, the vines and grasses. Smell the green breath of the plants and draw it into your lungs. Hear the calls of the birds, waking to the new day. Feel the fertile soil and the vegetation under your feet. And gradually, just dial back the volume on the voices in your head until they are nothing but a vague soft static that you can dismiss. Just fill your inner ears with the words, beauty and peace. Let yourself rest like a bird floating on a thermal.

Your also said, “Tomorrow night I am having dinner with Jenny A at SHLA. She just drove from Mexico en route to London. I am trying to fill my days with old friends. They seem to more than adequately fill the void.” and “I am going to Palm Springs this weekend to a gay sober convention. Meetings, meetings meetings. Trying to connect with my tribe.” and “My back aches. My balls ache. My head hurts. My fingers are dry. My tummy is swollen. My eyes are sore. Yet, I am going in the right direction.” Yes, you are. I’m so glad that Tres Triste got through to you and that you’re having dinner with Jenny A. on Wednesday since as an old and dear friend, she seems to be able to give you the straight skinny and a kick in the pants when you need it to get you to put your motor in gear and move forward. Instead of spinning your wheels in neutral, like you do when you hunker down in your head as you’re wont to do. Good on you.

Please be gentle with yourself. And do things to support your physical healing and strength while you’re under such stress. Remember, that although we may alternately, coddle you too much or royally piss you off, we’re in your corner. So keep on punching, Rocky. [“Eye of the Tiger” (Survivor): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nS4giqtbRBM%5D

Blessings,

Amanda

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