Medicinal Control

The day is dragging on into afternoon, and the sun lights up the whole room thoroughly enough, though not adding any extra warmth to the already warm room where I live in this mild January day. I’m thinking of how to tell you about more about my chronic illness, without sounding like a tin horn. My own personal version of schizophrenia is well under medicinal control at the moment, and I’m feeling quite comfortable in this quiet afternoon. I’m enjoying a full measure of peace and quietude in this solitary afternoon. I have enough trouble with my thoughts often enough. I especially relish days like this one. It’s a privilege to feel whole and healthy for a change.

My doctor just increased my meds this past week, to help me handle my anxiety attacks with more alacrity in the dining room, whenever I go out to the public gathering downstairs, to eat my meals. The crowd of people makes me uncomfortable, exacting a toll on my emotions during every meal. The medications are working, though. I’m a lot more calm now than I was before the adjustment.

I remember so many days and nights in my life when I didn’t feel the least bit happy or whole or healthy. I’m debating on whether to get a root beer out of the frig at the moment. I think I won’t. It’ll just slow down my writing. Nah. I’m thirsty. Here’s how.

I have my root beer, and am enjoying it. Other times, I make decaf in my room. Assisted living is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I have a hard time with some of the things that happen here.

It used to be that I’d have a craving for alcohol. I’d always lose the battle against taking a drink, without ever hardly understanding that I needed to resist the temptation. I’ve gotten an education on the subject, and learned better the hard way, long since. Tonight at supper there was this old lady who wouldn’t shut up about drinking wine. She kept telling me over and over that her doctor told her a glass of wine before bedtime was good for her. She must have said it five times. I told her that I’m an alcoholic, but that didn’t stop her from reiterating her “doctor’s advise,” as if I were hard of hearing or something. It really annoys me when people disrespect my word in such a fashion. She didn’t know what she was doing. She doesn’t understand. The mention of alcohol makes me uncomfortable, because I’ve had so much trouble with it over the years, I know I have to avoid all alcohol, even mouth wash. Also, there’s that guy who always sits at the next table over, in the dining room, who’s always trying to get more beer at mealtimes. Between the two of them, the old Catholic lady who’s always yapping about her opinion, and the obnoxious drunk, who’s always trying to get another beer, they both have to have their say, again and again.

It doesn’t matter. It just pisses me off.

I know what I’m talking about. I realize that for me to imbibe alcohol would be a major disaster. No, I’m not being theatrical. I was the town drunk when I was young. I almost died from the use of alcohol. I know myself and my disease. I’m not about to prove anything to anyone. That would be like blowing my brains out with a hand gun, just to prove to someone that the bullet would make my head bleed. I’ve already proven my allergy to alcohol to myself, for my own satisfaction, and I don’t need to prove anything like it to anyone, ever again, for as long as I am permitted by God to live in this world. I enjoy my life of sobriety, and I won’t have anyone telling me I can handle something I know I can’t handle. That’s how I got into so much trouble when I was young. I was proving something to someone. God ministered to my alcoholism thoroughly enough over the years that I know what I know, and that settles it.

That evening meal annoys me no end.


I am a vulnerable, sexually abused, adult child, already survived into my senior citizen years as a lifetime bachelor. About a year ago, there was this younger woman who used to use her body like a weapon against me, to shower me with hugs and kisses, to butter me up with false physical affection, to get what she wanted from me. Her words (I love you Papa, she always said) to get cash money out of me for her heroine habit. She always had a story for why she needed more money. She also emptied my apartment of all its valuables when I got sick and lost my wits for a while. It was a little better than a year ago. I used to enjoy getting the hugs and kisses from her, being called Papa and old Geezer, by a beautiful young woman, since I wasn’t getting any physical or emotional affection from anyone else for a long time. I used to think I needed it. But I became aware that she and her boyfriend were making plans to kill me to get hold of as much drug money as they possibly could get, from my estate. When I lost my wits from getting confused about how to take my medicine, I could not make arrangements to shelter my possessions when I had to move into assisted living. I lost virtually all of my belongings to her greed and her habit. She hocked everything in my apartment for drug money, when I was too sick to help myself.

Then, I fell and broke my right hip in 2010 in the fall. That girl made an Oscar winning performance at my hospital bedside, and registered me at the nurses station as being a Do Not Resuscitate patient, the night before my hip surgery, “by order of the family.” I had told the nurses to give her all medical information about me she wanted, as if she were my daughter. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but she was trying to arrange for me to die on the operating table, because she had me so smitten with her, I’d told her I’d put her in my will. Her name really was there, too. She and her boyfriend were talking about murdering me when I was sitting right there on their front porch with them.

Since then, there is this other woman, now that I’ve moved away from that whole area altogether, who has this idea that she’s in love with me. I don’t find her the least bit attractive. She never bothered to ask me how I felt about her before she invested her whole heart in her fantasy relationship with my image. And she has already imposed herself on me twice in public. Kissing and hugging me when I’ve already told her I don’t want her to treat me like that. One of my friends got her on the telephone and straightened her out. But it looks like it didn’t change much about how she feels about me. She’s definitely attracted to me, and it makes me feel threatened. I can’t help it. She’s not my type.

I met both women in meetings of the Program, and they’ve both, obviously got their own sets of agenda. And I said earlier that I was comfortable this afternoon. I’m a confirmed bachelor. I’m so adamant that I will not father a schizophrenic child, I’ve decided I won’t have another intimate relationship with anyone. I’ve even been to the doctor thoroughly enough that I’ll be shooting blanks for the rest of my life. (Two Legged) (Damn Yankee) (Memoirs-Flower-Child) (Awakening My Muse) (Hockenschmidt) (Life on the Inside) (Passenger) (Rememberance) (What’s In a Name) (Deer) (Scatter-Brains) (Horse Girl) (Psychotherapy) (Institution) (Writer) (Oxygen Sisters) (Road Trip) (Considering the Day) (Alice and Victoria)


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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