What the fuck, man?
What the fuck!
I can’t call it, yo, I’m a sugarholic
Always got my Push Pop in a Whatchamacallit
Sunday, August 30:
We’ve made up. I definitely overreacted.
Had a great day yesterday. One of our finest.
The Routine is coming along well. Ready to ramp it up a bit this week. Surya Namaskara A and B x5, lifting 1x, bike 2x, run 2x, minimum.
Becoming more organized. Dad’s house is a mess, though. Need to devote an hour or so to cleaning that up.
Ready to start decreasing sports time substantially. Add knowledge instead.
Ready to ramp up the school life.
And so on.
Starting to gain clarity on the cuckold/polyamory aspects of our relationship. The fantasy in our sexual relationship is quite strong. We just had an intense sex session lasting a couple of hours. She had many orgasms as I talked dirty about a Bull we found. Him being more masculine than me: bigger, stronger, and potentially well-hung. (Not sure about the last part.)
It was extremely hot, probably our hottest sex yet, save for when we were in Chico and we were fucking like rabbits. But I now feel uncomfortable with it. Insecure. I have been feeling, increasingly, that it’s wiser to cut out all porn, all distractions, for a couple of months, at least. See where we’re at. Gain solid financial footing. Focus on discipline and what we need to do. Have organic fun within the relationship.
Focus on our work.
That’s what I want to do. Need to do. Am I strong enough to do it?
I must be.
Friday, August 28:
We had a big fight earlier today.
I’m pretty much through.
I’m tired of her (perceived) lack of compassion and sensitivity. I was with a client. I forgot to text her the safe word. She said something to the extent of, “You didn’t text [safe word]? Wow.” I could feel the disgust through the text.
A compassionate text, coming from someone who’s playful and optimistic, who tends to give the benefit of the doubt? “I’m assuming you’re with your client now? You and your memory! You forgot to text [safe word]. I’m worried about you.”
I flipped out. That was the straw that broke it. I’m so sick and tired of her negativity. It’s quite simple: she can’t provide me what I need. I need self-awareness and open communication. She’s afraid. She’s a lot like Caitlin.
She claims she’s so independent. Then why is it so threatening that I want some space? She’s said a number of hurtful, obnoxious things that she’s not even aware of or never actually apologized about. If she does apologize, she never demonstrates understanding of what she’s even apologizing for. It’s just “Sorry,” or “I apologize.” Yeah, that’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough.
She has the gall to keep criticizing how “dirty,” “disgusting,” “gross” and “nasty” the house she’s living in is. My house. My Mom’s house. Our house. Minimizing the honest to goodness attempts we’ve made and make to become cleaner. (And then in the same breath she’ll criticize me for claiming that I want her to change overnight.)
If you feel that strongly, clean it yourself! As my Mom noted, it’s not like her room is pristine. It’s quite cluttered. She’s had a problem with black ants in there — we’ve had an ant problem all summer — and she’s just bitched and moaned about it, like it’s all our fault, like our dirtiness has infested her room. This after we — her and I, not my Mom and I — paid for a housecleaner. She just bitched bitched bitched about how they did a terrible job. Yeah, maybe so. But you can choose to see that, or you can choose to see that it’s significantly cleaner now. And that you can’t blame us for ants in your room. I don’t eat in there or leave my clothes in there or anything.
If you feel that strongly about it, clean it up yourself! Keep it clean and pristine!
She doesn’t realize that paying $500 to rent a room in a nice house is dirt cheap. Realize how good you’ve got it or pack your bags up and go. We’re not going to tolerate negativity.
There’s a way to be honest and communicative while also being tactful and constructive. Constructive criticism, not just criticism. For someone so independent, why do you have to room here? Why do you have 10K in debt? Why don’t you have a car in your name? Why did you pay for a $700 phone when you were swimming in debt? Who told you to do that? That’s independent and responsible? Get over yourself.
Live within your means. Humble yourself. Show, don’t tell. She’s paying $500. What does she get? A spacious house. Exercise equipment in the garage. Two bathroom home with only one other full-time participant living there, so there’s a bathroom open 99% of the time. AC. Internet. Water. Utilities. Refrigerator. TV. DVD player. A place for your cat to stay (we don’t even like cats!).
No, we really should be charging $800, minimum. No way in hell she’d ever be able to find a comparable place for $850. It’d likely be $1200, minimum. Go on, Miss Responsible. See for yourself.
I’m done with her until she shows me something. Over days, weeks, months. I have left all kinds of little hints. Start building up your own querencia, your own personal life. Don’t just stay here all day. Buy groceries, cook, exercise, write in your journals, cultivate your creativity, attempt to build a social network. It’s not like you’ve just moved in. I was with you all the time for a month straight. It’s normal for me to want some me time, to have more space and figure out my life. Make sure my routine is on point. Because at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to live with it if I don’t get straight A’s, if my yoga practice isn’t up to par, if my food intake isn’t correct, if I have debt, if I’m behind on sleep, with dealing with my father’s impending death.
Can’t baby you all the time. Get thicker skin. It’s not like I am not extremely compassionate, sensitive and intelligent. Like I don’t listen to you and give positive feedback all the time. Like I don’t tell you how beautiful and capable you are every single day. Like I don’t pamper you. How about you show your appreciation? “Adam, I did [this] for you. I just wanted to show you my appreciation for [that].” Nope, none of that. Not anything. Just empty words. And not even particularly eloquent words at that. It’s like pulling teeth to get ’em out of her.
I’m better than this. I’m not just going to change my mind. We’ll work together. That’s it. If she gets her shit straight, shows and tells me what I need to hear, and it’s consistent over weeks and months, I’m open minded. But if you want to move out, date other guys, either of us meets someone, blah blah blah, that’s fine, too. I’ll help you as I can, platonically.
So we’re separated indefinitely in my book.
Other than that, things are going great! Seriously. I’ll update with more another day. :)
Thursday, August 27:
Hey, I’m back in just two days!
I am starting to feel better. Nice to get back on track. Psychologically my health is gradually increasing, too.
Still don’t give a fuck about school. Will I ever?
Melinda grated my nerves today when she was, once again, attacking — it feels like an attack, anyway — her home environment not being up to her perfectionist standards of cleanliness. It’s okay that you have your own form of neuroticism about that, but it’s not cool when you impinge that neuroticism onto others. I feel like she’s beating a dead horse at this point. We invested $200 to help clean the house. But all she did was complain about how awful they were and this and that. It’s a lot of complaining, which makes the positive action pale in comparison. It just makes me feel unappreciated.
It’s not like her room is perfect anyway. The other day she was complaining about the ants in her room. I dunno, what am I supposed to say? My mindset is, If you feel that strongly, do something about it. I can help you do something about it, to some degree, but you can’t use me as a tool to deal with your anxiety about insects. If it’s so gross and filthy and disgusting, then keep your room immaculate. Pull everything out of the room, sweep and wipe down, and do that daily. Be incredibly vigilant about keeping it neat.
I never eat in there or anything like that, so it’s not like I’m contributing anything more than tangential dirt. It’s also, like… be more positive and appreciative. You’re paying $500 for rent. You’re getting way more than $500 worth here, that’s for sure.
It also bothers me how when I calmly speak my mind — which is, typically, calm — she clams up and shuts down. Like it’s never to be spoken of again. That’s worse than the unconstructive criticism.
I don’t mind helping. But you gotta come at me the right way, basically. “Hey, Adam, I would really appreciate your help with this.” And you know what? There’s no guarantee I’ll say yes. And if I do say yes, I might begrudgingly do it. That’s just how I am at present moment. I need the freedom to be moody, too.
Make an offer. “Hey, remember the cleaning company you were looking up?” (I never got a thank you for that, did I? If I did it obviously didn’t make an impression on me.) “I’ll go half on you with that.”
But if she can’t truly appreciate how, overall, wonderful the home is, she really should look into other places to live. I know if she reads that she’ll get massively butthurt and blow it out of proportion, but I’m not saying that out of hate or bitterness. I’m saying it out of love. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her and wouldn’t want to be with her if she did that. It means that, if that’s what you gotta do to become more grateful with what you have, then do it. Look around and see how rough things really are out there. The chances are very low you’ll find a comparable place for anything less than $800. $1200, most likely.
Tuesday, August 25:
The juice fast didn’t go too well. It lasted about 18 hours. Then I ate poorly the next few days.
Yesterday and today have been good, though. Sunday too, really. I’m pretty much back. It was odd how “it” tailed off. Despite the many efforts of willpower I made to say, “This is it!” it failed to turn out that way. Instead, it was sort of like the feeling of a wave passing: “Meh, I’m pretty much over this. Let’s go back.”
Today has been productive. Mercury in Virgo effects, maybe. Moon in Capricorn. Lots of organizing, budgeting, cleaning. Biking, running, yoga. Light, all of it. Things will be light for the next three to four weeks.
Consistency is key.
It’s about getting my energy back. Working on the same things: writing, sleeping, exercise, budgeting, so on. Time management. Sobriety. It’s tough, slow-moving work. Believe me, I want to just get out there and kick some ass. Grind on the laptop with astrology for hours on end. Work on websites. Write. Read. But the energy simply is not moving in that manner. Must be patient and do what I can.
Hit a year of sobriety last week. Celebrated by going to Laguna Beach. Not sure how I feel about it. It’s an accomplishment, sure. But it’s still just one day at a time. Always will be. A psychological wave swamped over me the past three months. Only now is the shore even within sight. I’m tired and sore from swimming — or attempting to swim — to safety, and there’s still so much further to go.
Thinking about how far there is to go won’t help. Just gotta keep moving.
Tuesday, August 18:
First day of class. The official end of summer vacation. So the unofficial end of self-indulgent debauchery!
Day One of a juice fast reset. A badly needed reset.
Three days away from one year of sobriety. The last month has been brutal. From about January (the discovery of Onnit!) to June it was more or less smooth sailing; I hardly thought about it. But since then…
That may be an oversimplification. It probably is. Maybe it was from March to June, or March to May, or whatever. You get the point. It wasn’t a struggle.
Depression is a predictable occurrence for me: cease working out and depression soon follows. I honestly think that’s the case for human beings in general — exercise is necessary for quality of life — but for me in particular it’s a stark contrast. I feel the itch of self-pity after just a few days. Within a week it borders on crisis. After 10 days there’s a massive indulgence in something uncouth. If it’s not narcotics or hallucinogenics, it’s sugar. Or fat and salt. Or lust. Or all of the above. It’s gotta be something, yo. Whatever keeps that dopamine flowing.
I don’t know what caused it this time. I felt it creeping, slowly but surely, for months. That feeling of slow, unbridled disillusionment. Of willpower weakening. It’s the psychological corollary of the ache of your muscles as you reach that penultimate half-lap on your brisk run, or your fourth of five sets of weight training.
You see, it’s never been the end of physical fitness that’s been difficult for me. That’s the easy part. You can’t get up for the last lap? You’re almost done! That’s the easy part: surrender and give everything you have.
But the part where you’re 60 or 75 percent of the way, and you feel drained, where you have been giving everything you have, where you had to drag yourself onto the map, or into the gym, or wherever, to keep the demons away? And where you’re floating on pure muscle memory, the memory you so painstakingly detailed into the fiber of your being that demands greatness even when you psychologically feel completely incapable of maintaining it?
That’s what the muscle memory is for. Your brain doesn’t have to do it anymore. Rather, it doesn’t have to think about doing it. It simply takes you along for the ride.
But what happens when you aren’t even allowed on the ride? You’re too short; you do not pass go, you do not collect 200 dollars; your arms are too short to box with God.
Then what? What happens when that “fix,” that healthy habit that you have relied on for energy, purpose, calm, and healing is, temporarily at least, simply not an option? When your nervous system has, in no uncertain terms, made it clear you’re burned out?
But are you burned out? Those are the doubts. You try different things to trick the system. Have a slow day. Have a rest day. Do something different.
Create a new goal.
Nope. Nothing works. It’s burnout, kid. You have to wait.
But when is it over? Who knows. How do you snap yourself out of the cycle? Who knows. It’s different every time. But it’s the same every time. It makes no sense. It’s not supposed to. Perspective is the first thing that goes. Any true addict knows that. Anyone who’s ever fallen in love knows that. Anyone who’s ever dedicated themselves to their craft knows that.
We’re here now.
How much damage did you do?
Jung would say, It doesn’t matter. Life is a spiral. You are destined to come back to the same point on a spiral, just from a different perspective. This is life. Be grateful to experience even that.
Maybe. Or maybe I don’t know shit about a dead man’s perspective.
How much damage did you do?
Assess. Obsession. Assess the obsession.
Who the fuck knows? I know I’m still sober. That’s about all that matters. I know that a year from now, when many of the same triggers and thoughts occur, I’ll have the comfort of experience of, if not conquering, at least surviving the situation. Preparing the soil to allow me to conquer it the next time around. Or to at least make an attempt to conquer it, rather than holding on for dear life.
How much damage did you do?
Looking back on the past three months of my life, what have I done? Aside from falling in love, not much.
Yes, falling in love is good. Great, even. But remember that bit about perspective? This is one of those things where I won’t really know what it means, even have a hint at it, until two, three, six months down the line. But yes, it is, of course, absolutely amazing.
But what else? None of my goals have truly been met. Almost everything in the tarot reading came true. Pretty insane, right? She said, in her own way, some shit like this would happen. She said the depression wasn’t over. She said, What will you do when life doesn’t go your way, when your plans and goals are completely askew, when all your planning was for naught?
On one hand, it doesn’t matter: the plans still exist. The only thing stopping them is me. And the only thing stopping me is me. And I am not stopping myself. I am spread thin and doing the best I can. And I have never stopped doing the best I can. Not a single day goes by where I say to myself, “I am satisfied with where I am, with who I am.” And that’s a good thing and a bad thing. The good and bad thing are the same thing: ambition.
My ambition will not die. My pursuit for self-perfection will not die. That perspective will hopefully die, one day, but I cannot rush that. It has not outlived its usefulness. The fire shall never die. I will never stop offering myself at the altar of purifying, searing fire.
On the other hand, it does matter: where are the results? What money do you have? What certifications? Where’s your website? What books have you read? Where’s your knowledge? Where’s the practice?
I’ve been surviving rather than thriving. Well, I suppose it happens. One can’t thrive every second of every minute. I’ve once again underestimated the stupefying effect drugs have on oneself. Sugar, marijuana, caffeine, narcotics, hallucinogenics: it doesn’t matter. It’s all self-limiting with regards to authentic self-expression.
Sure, at times they may serve as bridges, similar to the bridge my current ambition has. The finger pointing at the Moon is not the Moon. The ambition is not what is one is ambitious for. Hence there is no point in judging. Judging someone else’s bridge, whether it be in the form of Mary Jane or a Reese’s Pieces, is judging my own. It doesn’t matter.
I possess an uncanny ability to look at things with startling objectivity. No wonder people get offended, so bathed in their own subjectivity.
We’re here now.