“So If You Care to Find Me, Look to the Western Sky”

Photo on 11-3-14 at 4.24 PM

Here are my revised goals as of November 2, 2014:

1.I am bicoastal. I have beautiful residences that I love in both LA and NYC.

2.I weight 260 lbs and have 15% body fat.

3.I lift or do CrossFit six days per week.

4.I write for four hours every day.

5.I have written 25 movies, 10 TV shows, 25 plays, 5 novels, 5 non-fiction books, a book of poetry and a short story anthology.

6.I am married to the man of my dreams.

7.We have three sons.

8.I make $110K or more every month.

9.I live off 10% of my income and direct the rest to do good on the planet.

10.I head a very successful non-profit that helps Iraq and Afghanistan veterans. We teach Pure Peer Support techniques, host weekend retreats, sponsor creativity workshops, and offer paid internships in the entertainment industry to Iraq and Afghanistan veterans helping them to find work that fulfills them and sustains them financially. It has  big, beautiful workspaces and headquarters in New York City and LA.

Here again is my Life Mission:

I co-create a world of Excitement, Wonder, Magic, and Mystery to positively transform the consciousness of Planet Earth in a good way by unleashing the Powerful Warrior Poet who lives inside me.

My Life Affirmation:

As a Queer Poet among the masses, I am powerful! 

I just cancelled the return part of my ticket. Apparently I’m staying in California longer. My friends are pitching in to pay the change fee. Their idea, not mine. I hate accepting charity— and yes, I am the only person that would call it that, not them (hell, I don’t know if that’s true. probably SHIT! autocorrect WILL NOT let me spell “probably” “prolly” there. I guess I can put it in quotation marks— hello, I don’t know if that’s true. “prolly” some of you muthafuckahs reading this might call it charity. y’all ain’t my friends. y’all ain’t pullin’ for me) besides, do you know what “charity” means? of course you do. it means love. is ee cummings writing this shit today? why no capitalization?


So of course you know what “charity” means; it means love. Isn’t it interesting that I said “I don’t like taking charity?” I mean given the real meaning of the word. “Jeffrey, are you able to accept love?” hahahah “Jeffrey, you know the first person who has to accept you is you!” hahahahaha “Jeffrey, do you forgive yourself— I mean really and deeply forgive yourself? You know forgiveness is for-giving!” Christ, pass the basket of razor blades! Isn’t that awful? Isn’t that awful that I have such an aversion to statements that (all though they mostly sound Stuart Smalley as fuck) are absolutely and completely true?

Actually a reader (a man who also wants to be my friend) took the time and wrote me an email based on yesterday’s blog. He took the time to bullet point it and went to great pains to be concise when I explained that ADD is (usually) the principle symptom of the PTSD (notice I didn’t say “my” PTSD— good job, Key) and anyway, this guy took the time to identify with me and encourage me in a way that didn’t make me want to kill him or myself but one of the most useful things he said to me is that he wondered if I had forgiven myself for my relationship with Adam. And I thought about it and I’m pretty sure I haven’t. And although I would have thought that I had, I also really don’t think I’ve forgiven Adam either. I am still angry and resentful about the money part. I’m fucking broke and trying to figure out how I can move to LA or New York either one given where I’ve ended up financially and for seven years I was working towards a financial plan in partnership with Adam. He told me (especially after every drug or alcohol relapse, getting caught in a big lie or cheating, and after episodes of physical violence) “Please don’t leave me Jeff. Promise me you won’t leave me. Promise me we’ll be together forever. I wouldn’t have quit my job that I hated if it weren’t for you. I wouldn’t have been able to save my rental property if it weren’t for your financial help. I wouldn’t have gone to med school if it weren’t for you. Please, please promise me you’ll never leave me. When I’m a doctor, you can sit your ass at home and write for the rest of your life. I promise I will take care of you— I swear!” But in the end, when that bourbon got to tasting better than my dick, the son-of-bitch just couldn’t keep his end of the bargain. I wasn’t not going to be able to stand in the way of his drinking and using any more— and he had found a man (who happened to already have a man) who would let him drink as he pleased.

Adam broke a bone in my right orbital cavity with his fists so now, every time I blow my nose hard, air rushes into my right eye socket and sort of blows it up like a ballon. You should have seen how fucked up my face was when he finished with me that night. The odd thing is, my ka-bar (Marine knife) was on the table right behind him, well within my reach. Have you ever played a weapons-centric video game? You know how when you walk into a new room in Call of Duty, the indicated weapon sort  of glows? Well that’s the way it was when I saw that ka-bar on the bedside table behind him. My Marine training was fully engaged and I was making the active decision, while his fists were crashing into my face, not to kill him. I was actually calm while he was beating me— like when I was scared in Iraq.  Knife or no knife, my body (thanks to your tax dollars) is a weapon and I could have killed him with my bare hands. I say “kill” because that’s what you trained me to do. Everybody thinks Marines are trained to fight. That’s horseshit. I’m not a trained fighter. I’m a trained killer. But even to defend myself as that bastard was permanently damaging my face, I knew would have ended the marriage— and I took it because I didn’t want him to leave me. I always judged women who didn’t leave. “Why doesn’t she at least take a frying pan and bash his brains out while he’s asleep?” Now I know. Now I understand. Over the years, my self esteem had been so damaged, I felt like that’s what I deserved. Note I didn’t say “I thought” that’s what I deserved because I “knew” better. I just didn’t “feel” it. I didn’t “feel” worth anything better than to be beat by the man that I had sworn my eternal love to. Have I forgiven myself for that, Bill? (Bill’s the man who wrote me the email.) In truth I don’t know. Have I forgiven Adam? I thought that I had. But living continually with the ramifications— the damage to my self-esteem, my face,  and the destruction of a financial partnership that I paid into for years— that makes it very hard.

“Dear God, for every good thing I’ve ever prayed for for myself, I pray for for Adam Nelson MD. If only one of us can have it, give it to him. And so it is. Thank you, God. Amen.”

I just cancelled the return flight to Alabama tomorrow. Part of me wanted to get on that plane and go back to Alabama and hide out for the rest of my life. Part of me wants to retreat into the room that was my nursery and never come out. It’s the part of me that was crumpled on the floor that night when Adam was standing over me crashing his fists into me. It’s the part of me that was crying and begging my parents not to hit me, it is the part of me that was so consumed with shame after my church camp counselor and school teacher started using me for his sexual gratification. It is the part of me that was betrayed after offered my very life to my country to defend principles and a way of life only to be sent off to a bogus war started on trumped-up “evidence” so that millionaires could  become billionaires and billionaires could rule the world. At least a million Iraqis are dead and I went there willing to die to help them. 5000 of my brothers and sisters are dead and I still don’t know what to do with that. That’s the part of me that wanted to get on that plane tomorrow and go home. It’s the part of me that wants to take a million smiling selfies and post them on Facebook so that everyone will see what a happy life I’m leading, how everything is better, how I forgiven Adam and I’m moving on and everything is going to be alright and nothing can hurt me all is okay! It’s all a fucking lie. It’s not alright. It’s not okay. But goddammit it’s going to be. Because getting that Eagle, Globe and Anchor burned into my heart was just a reaffirmation of what was already true. I was born perfect and your abuse made me a badass. You may kill my body but you will never kill my spirit. I am a piece of God and I am eternal and every fucking day that I continue to draw breath is a triumph over death. The wages of sin are death, death, and death. Sin is error thought. I am purging all that shit and I don’t give a goddamn who likes it and who doesn’t. I did not deserve to be hit as a child, bullied by those fucking stupid racist homophobic rednecks, hit my by parents, hit by my teachers, ridiculed by my society, ostracized by my religion, used by lecherous queens, hit by my “husband” or any of that other shit. Here’s my updated Stuart Smalley affirmation:

I am a badass manifestation of the Almighty and Eternal God. God made me just like It wanted me. You want to hurt? Stand between me and my goals. I will fucking roll all over you. And so it is. Thank you, God. Amen. 

Life for me changes now. And it starts by saying “yes” to this extended stay in California to see what other unexpected miracles with regard to my career (and other) goals might just pop up. Who’s in? I’m not going alone. When I win, we all win. So for those who are in for long haul, I’ll…

See y’all tomorrow. 

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