MORNING:

I decided not to read the news this morning. The trees grow and die but the forest never changes so what’s the point? I put on the new Morgal album (mighty fuckin’ horns and hails to Hells Headbangers for having that tape out 3 weeks early!). Coffee. Weed. Imploding universe. Check, check, check. When participating in part 2 of the Wounded Warriors’ Trauma Resiliency Program one picks and dissects a specific major trauma. Do I pick the call that made me hate myself or the one that made me hate the world? They happened mere weeks apart and forever changed everything. I changed from an active participant (competent paramedic) to a powerless observer (shitty ineffectual paramedic) in those weeks. I have always hated working under the “worst thing” scenario but those 2 calls truthfully began my loss of coping and self.

I picked the world. I think I have made better progress not hating myself these past few years than I have with not hating the world at large. Plus I want to return to modified work and that call really fucks me up around ambulances, which is kind of a problem for that. The new to me Aara album “En Ergo Einai” is on now. It’s hard not to get angry when something major changes on you and you’re just supposed to accept it while faking control with irrelevancies. I’m tired of being mentally ill. My family looks tired too. Intention and responsibility are not the same. I try my best for them and they all still love me anyway despite me. Tired but blessed. The Aara album is short. Opeth’s “Morningrise” is on the turntables now. Fitting album title. Another coffee. More shatter. Opeth. Maybe today my mind will solve itself. Baited breath.

MIDDAY:

Dodsengel’s “Mirium Occultum” is on the decks now. From there I’m thinking Dissection’s “Storm Of The Light’s Bane” Followed by the new-ish Vreid album “Wild North West” (the album came out months ago but the vinyl took a while to show up). Watching my identity slowly change is frustrating. “Paramedic” is what I have known for years (I considered myself a number of things in adolescence but the projection of superficial divergence only ends up communicating “dirtbag” so the effort becomes pointless). The paramedic label conveys certain attributes, abilities and values that supercede the superficial. It seemed to make people feel okay with me. It gave me value. It was my way of contributing to a frustrating and elusive society I otherwise didn’t seem to belong in. I’m not saying that with ironic outsider pride, I just don’t seem to value nor disregard things with the same lens most other people are looking through. I would love nothing more than to not be unusual but at least unusual hadn’t meant being entirely alone. Not to worry though, mental illness fixed that. I receded from my life the way any self-respecting pathetic piece of shit would. Adolescence was a prophecy, not a phase. No one escapes themselves.

This strange thing started happening when I broke at work and finally tried reaching out for once. Important people like my wife and kids didn’t seem to think I was a piece of shit for struggling and hurting. They were angry and pained over how I had treated them while I struggled but they still cared about me. They still wanted to help me get better. I was being helped. I was not autonomous. I was being helped. Touching for a person but fucking terrifying for a paramedic. Ego death launch sequence activated. What next? Too sensitive for such a career? Childhood issues? Numbing with drugs is bad? Should have been a writer? Not facing facts? They talk of “taking care” of your mental health so is all this my fault or did it happen to me? This upcoming TRP retreat is really making me anxious about just what exactly is going to get explored.

LATE AFTERNOON:

Obtained Enslavement’s “Witchcraft” is now playing. A vinyl repress that was long overdue years ago. Thank you Peaceville. Cheers too to Soulseller for pressing up “Soulblight”, another essential gem. I showered and shaved. Clean on the outside as I like to say. Lots of people kill themselves or try to in the shower or bathtub. Makes cleanup easier and the door locks to add to the effect. I hated showering for a while. Never seemed to wash anything away and the stall was the same emotional bloody slaughterhouse I had to overcome every time I did. When they weren’t dead they were apologetic, convinced their bloody mess proved them to be the burden they saw themselves as. Turns out the blood wasn’t the burden. It’s easier to clean than if it’s on something like wallpaper, yes, but the soul doesn’t care about the medium. In this case that’s not the message at all.

I fucking hate him for jumping. 19 is old enough to know. He had a mother and that’s what he did to her for trying to help him. I’m tired of seeing him laying there on the ground split open while she screams for not from above. I’m tired of hearing all the bystanders that think we can do something about that mangled lump of flesh and bone. I’m tired of reliving the fake “learning opportunity” resuscitation I had to participate in with the preceptor crew that accomplished nothing but spilling him all over the ambulance floor. I’m tired of cleaning him up from the crevices of the stretcher and the floor of the ambulance at every OT appointment. This is but one call. I’m tired.

EVENING:

Just finished Obtained Enslavement’s “Soulblight”, and I have moved on to Troll’s “Drep De Kristne” (blunt) and am thinking Whoredom Rife’s debut 12″ EP would be a fine follow-up. Had dinner and watched an episode of The Simpsons with the kids. The trouble with change is that it’s easier to see how others need to. My sleep has been shitty again lately. I started a new medication that was awesome and for about 5 weeks I slept like I hadn’t in years. That was that. Back to the new normal. It’s almost as if I never actually fully sleep, I just lay there tranced, dozing. Time passes non-linearly. My wife is away at a Wounded Warriors’ spousal retreat and I laid in bed alone the first night she was away wondering how my father must have felt laying in bed alone when my mother was dying in the hospital, knowing that after 21 years she would never be beside him again, and how terrified I am of having that happen to me. I lost them both, not just her. I don’t want the people I care about to hurt like I do yet life has it’s way despite best intentions. More hipster irony. Why can’t I stay awake and worry about how white my teeth are or how well my motor oil is working like those happy TV people? Life moves on and there’s nothing left but to apply the lessons of what you’ve been through to what you have. I would have laughed myself hoarse if you told me 5 years ago I would be doing TRE, going to therapy, staying relatively sober and getting in touch with my emotions. Off work on comp because I hurt my feelings? For years no less? Seriously? What a pisser. But here we are.

LATER EVENING:

Malakhim’s debut LP is spinning, an impressive showing after an impressive demo and debut EP, and maybe followed by Sorguinazia’s debut CD. My psychologist thinks I should explore my writing more. He thinks I should be a writer. There, said it. How did I end up being a paramedic anyway? I should stop worrying about my “career” and entertain and pursue other capabilities and interests. That just isn’t how I see myself though. Maybe that could change. If I say to never say never to returning to the road I should apply the same premise to moving on. Maybe I can find a meaningful way to reconnect other lost souls in service to hope and beauty. Help the helpers as my wife would say. I genuinely like being a paramedic. I hope I can at least do community stuff in the future but it is what it is. Feelings. What a brilliantly stupid invention.

Someone owes me a penny lol.