Things are hectic. Computer upgrades, going back to work full time, my host keeps going down. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to do this anymore. I know that sounds selfish, but it’s true. When it takes 45 minutes to be able to get to my blog login page, and then another 45 minutes to get it to accept my login, another 45 minutes to navigate to the Plugins page, another 45 minutes to, well, you get the point, I hope. I remember when having a way to express myself through my writing and photographs wasn’t this hard. Log in to Blogger.com, write a post, pray Blogger didn’t eat it, and within a second or two, check out your site, and there was the post! Even with the older software, Greymatter and MovableType, I didn’t have issues that took three hours a pop to fix. I remember the first time this happened, and I was waiting on the page to load, I went into hypoglycemia, and by the miracle of being able to drag myself away from the computer to the kitchen to eat something, in this case it was guzzle a can of cherry Coke, that I missed falling into a coma and risk having Dennis inject me with Glucagon. The only problem with that is that I know he can’t mix the stuff for shit, and there’s a high chance that he may inject me with air.

Needless to say I am still on the Starvation Diet, out of fear of spending the next five years of my life in a psychiatric hospital. For some reason, my mind has equated that with the days I spent with that horrific occult in San Francisco when I was deflowered….

Such is life.

But the other issue is, I have other sites, tester sites, on my DreamHost account, and they don’t magically fall apart when I’m not around to constantly babysit them. They’re running the same WordPress installation, the same Plugins and the same theme. They don’t mysteriously fall apart and I don’t have to spend hours trying to get them back together again. So when I express this to my hosts, they act as if I’m the crazy one. All I want is verification that it’s the server. Nothing is perfect, and I would rather the server was rejecting these Plugins than I am doing something wrong and stopping other people on the server from having sites that work properly.

Yes, I have communicated that to my hosts. No, they have never answered me about it.

That aside, the past couple of days were pretty upsetting for me. It’s the four year anniversary of the death of Jess and today is the birthday that was never had. We still have the decorations and cake supplies from 2008. I downloaded his two journals in PDF format and have them for anyone who wants to read them. Jess was pan, trans, and died of a barbiturate overdose on August 14, 2008 after battling cancer for three years. The cancer had gone into his bones and muscles and it made just laying somewhere soft extremely painful. His screams kept the entire family awake for three nights. On the fourth day, he found his grandfather’s phenobarbital and took seven of them to relieve his pain. He died an hour later, at the age of 19. To make me feel better, the woman at the morgue told me that he died of “heart failure brought on by decreased brain activity.” No shit. You take enough barbiturates, everything fails. As with his cousin, we accused each other. “Did you poison him?” “No, I thought you did it out of sympathy..?” “I didn’t do it.” “How did he get into his grandfather’s room? He couldn’t walk, let alone climb stairs..” There was no other explanation for it. When one is in extreme pain, they do crazy shit that seems super-human. I know that all too well.

I was put on a strange medication that has caused seizures and hallucinations late at night. Although I took it intentionally last night because my own pain and suffering was intolerable. I thought back to when I was sixteen, laying on that cold, wooden table, with the hard metal rods inside me, begging for deliverance, and compared the pain to that. I greatly accepted the morphine that was offered to me once I was released. I begged for more and more after the first dose. I pleaded for some the next morning. When I got home, the first thing I did was seek out more morphine. It was vicious. I had phantom pains from that for decades. Every once in a while, I’ll reach down and trace the scars he left me. I’ve never explained them to anyone, but they are there. Other people have saw them. No one questions me about them, really. By the time that I was able to pull myself together and lead a normal life, he had been dead for a while. It was then that I was able to love another man again. I was never questioned about the scars. I was never questioned about the abilities, or the force-fields that I had put up around me to prevent myself from ending up on a metaphor of that wooden table again. I had had yet to have a flash back of those days until recently. The seizures, the hallucinations, the pain, it all brought it back. Somehow, I was able to get up in the morning, get dressed and go to work like there was nothing wrong.

But there was something wrong.

I remembered it all. I scribbled it down in my notebook during breaks, at red lights, while waiting on a train, during Carl’s turn to lead the lecture. My pen, which I bought brand-new on Saturday, ran out of ink today. I had mainly used it to scribble my situation down, my thoughts, my feelings, explicit details of what had happened to me, thoughts that flowed through my mind, what it did to me. Coming home, I found another pen from the box and finished the notebook. The story wasn’t complete yet. I opened another notebook and scribbled more. It was over half full when I stopped. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with these notebooks, so I took out an envelope, scribbled my brother in law’s name and address on them, and took them to the post office and mailed them before I had a second thought. He deserved to know what happened more than anyone else, since I ran to him after the experience. I was too afraid and too ashamed to go home to my mother or anyone else. I knew everyone would know. He was the only person I didn’t care if they knew. Perhaps I’m opening up Pandora’s Box again, but I don’t care. He deserves the truth, too, even if he was close friends with that guy.

And yet, no one knows a thing.