Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 As much as I write, you would think I read a lot. That is not the case (unless you count me reading my old journals. Shame on me). I have a hard time finding books i wanna read. I used to go to the library frequently and I was reading much then, but it was hard to find the books. There’s a certain genre I’m into, like autobiography/memoir/ addiction and recovery/humor/basically anything creative nonfiction. It does exist. Like Love Warrior or Pour Me a Life or Sex Cult Nun (yeah I had to read that, the title was too intriguing). However, I could spend a good hour browsing spines and still leave empty handed.  Other good titles are Drinking: A Love Story and My Lovely Wife in the Psych Ward. Give me the hard stuff. For a while I was really into my religious and spiritual books.  I found all of them at thrift stores, and I had a nice collection, but after I absorbed their wisdom I donated them (except for Love Wins . Im hoarding that). The hardest one to read was an exeges...

 I’d like to impart some hospital wisdom. I have a sheet of paper from one of my hospital says. It’s just a bunch of bullet points and sentences, but I’ve always liked the sentiment of its advice. This list is meant to help you take yourself less seriously, see past the negative experiences, and preserver. No doubt it is aimed at people who think that life is no longer worth living.  We got handouts in the activity room, which was a small common area where we ate our meals and had group therapy. There was a tv. You could go in there to color or do word searches, especially if you didn’t want to be in your room (I took advantage of leftover breakfast coffee). Most people stayed in their rooms to sleep. I keep this handout stashed in a recovery workbook called Living With Your Higher Power (it’s an AA thing), with other rehab and hospital papers I’ve decided to keep for some reason or other. It’s just a small stack now; I used to have a collection of folders from my inpatient st...

  I may actually be onto something. Five years ago I was having a little vacay at a local hospital. I was ending up in, as Lemony Snicket would say, in a series of unfortunate events. It wasn’t all horrible, but it was…damn freaky.  While I was there I met a guy in the activities room and we started chatting and doing crafts together. We were making collages; I think they were supposed to be “dream boards” (is that still a thing?). Anyways, he was nice and friendly, so when I got to rehab I decided to write him a letter. I hope I’m not breaking any rules by mentioning his name (I doubt you could identify him). Dear Randy, Well, I’ll write a letter to Randy, that guy from Mexico. It’s cold here and hard not to smoke but it’s ok maybe not for me, but we’ll see. Apprehensive and tense— always new faces after I get done with the last — I never know what I really like; I’m so middle road. I hope you’re okay and at the Days Inn until you find your Air b&b. I don’t know how...

 Let’s take a trip back in time… I kept a journal when I was working as a pool monitor over the summer of 2017, as you may know. To my amazement, that was almost ten years ago now. I started the entries as letters to my mother, even though I never mailed them. I’d like to share one such letter. I wrote it in particularly nice cursive for some reason (my handwriting is always changing, to this day). Dear Mom, It is Friday June 9, 2017. I am here at Cypress Head pool. No one is here except for two young guys cleaning the pool. They come in a white truck. The landscaping guys were here earlier, with their leaf blowers and weed wackers. A man named Tim McDaniel introduced himself to me. Nice gentleman — did Navy Reserves. Told me to dip my feet in the pool. Good idea. One of these days I’m going to take a quick dip. Sometimes I wear my bathing suit under my clothes, just for the hell of it.  I packed a lunch today in the Rubbermaid lunchbox nana gave me: peanut butter sandwich, ap...

  A morning cigarette is still legal and honestly one of the best pick me ups. Hours of sleep create a short withdrawal which makes the nicotine go straight to your head. Ask anyone: it’s a rush. But it’s not for me anymore. Sometimes I choke and gag on the thing. It starts a wet cough which turns into gagging. I don’t know why this is occurring. Ive enjoyed one too many morning drags without repercussions. It’s time to face the music I guess.  It seems worse with regulars. I prefer a menthol in the morning. In my opinion, Newports are the best morning smokes. They’re clean and smooth, and the menthol relaxes the throat (I sound like an old doctor). As unhealthy as it is, it can be a slice of bliss. Take my word for it.  The morning puff is hardly unique, out of the 40 cigarettes I smoke a day (now where’s an old doctor when I need one?). I’m accustomed to waking up and lighting up once the coffee is brewing. However with the ill effects of this, I like to wait til I’...

  Why am I so sure that life goes on after we die?  For one, I listen to a lot of near death experiences on you tube (Although I don’t think getting your learning from you tube can make you a master of anything, unless it’s makeup. It’s not a reputable source). I used to listen to them daily. It fascinated me. Most were positive experiences, resulting of course from tragic circumstances. I was hooked, of course, because they gave me hope that “all is not lost” and there is a realm called heaven, and no, it is not all in your head. It’s very much real. This much I can believe. There’s people that like to say that when you die your brain releases this DMT stuff that gives you funky visions. Why chalk it up to chemicals? Why wouldn’t people want to think it’s real? Do they want to be dead when they die? Or are they so stubbornly realistic? What is so bad about heaven?…is it that its existence would also prove the very real existence of hell? (As my friend likes to say, he’ll c...