Coursing Through Life

My thoughts are simply caught up with the mundane things of life, here at the moment; things that are so ordinary they hardly have enough significance to warrant mentioning them here in the first place. There are things coursing through my mind at the moment that hardly deserve anything. For instance, I’ve thought about writing down the experience I’ve just now enjoyed, of eating an ordinary supper, for instance. Most people do that much on a regular basis in this country, at the very least.

Right?

Well, I don’t know about that experience being such a mundane given in life, at this point in my lifetime. The only thing unique about this experience of mine, is the fact that I’ve known a time when I’ve suffered a significant amount of deprivation and starvation there for awhile, in my own past, that I don’t take my food for granted. I know what it is to not have enough to eat. In fact, I know what it is to have been so desperate, that I would resort to begging, borrowing, and stealing to get enough to eat, so that I would not perish altogether!

There is death by starvation, after all.

I’m so eternally grateful for the privilege of having enough food to eat on a regular basis, for a change, that I have an especially notable attitude of gratitude, every time I heave to for another meal at the dining room table. I know what it is to not have the resources to be able to get much of anything to eat, for the sake of my formerly active drug addictions and my formerly active alcoholism in my own, personal past; I was desperate enough to eat raw peanut butter off a knife.

I know nothing about the culinary arts, or how to prepare any significant sort of meal for myself. I’m no gourmet, or great chef, I’m only a sober drunk, reveling in the fact that I’ve had plenty to eat recently. I’m only a common street junky, gone straight for a significant enough period of time, to realize how much of a privilege it is for me to have enough food to eat for a change. It’s enough of a blessing to me for me to want to protect my own blessings from the thieves who would deprive me of them, by hook or crook.

I wasn’t required to walk an awfully great distance to get my food, for a change, or to struggle to do some exceptionally difficult task, before I was privileged enough to sit down at a supper table for my evening meal, after having both breakfast and lunch served to me already, today. My family, who have loved me when they were still alive to love me, and my Maker, has loved and cared about me well enough, in my recovery from all of my addictions, that all I had to do all day today, as any day now, was to show up at the dining room table, here at the retirement community where I enjoy living the good life, and order off a reasonable menu, to enjoy having enough food to eat, and it’s already paid for.

In fact, I’ve been enough of a common street junky in my experience in life, I’ve had the unique and significant experience of being sober a long enough time. I’ve had some very disreputable characters doing their very best to take my blessings away from me, up to and including my very life itself, so that they could enjoy my blessings and my bounty, in my place, which the Lord my God has given to me. I understand their point of view, besides; that I’ve learned to avoid the Program of Sobriety by this late date in my recovery, because I understand that I happen to be particularly vulnerable to such dangerous people, in the first place.

 

Let someone else carry the message to others, face to face. I have a survival problem I’m dealing with here. I don’t have any big, romantic experience to relate, the way you might see in the movies, or any theatrical recovery to present, as some big testimony to present here. I took responsibility for my own illness and my own recovery, and that’s about it. I only happen to be one old geezer, who is getting along with the better part of 30 years of absolute abstinence under my belt, and a faithful obedience to report to the Lord my God Himself, that I feel it an object of my duty to mention it in my writing at the moment.

I don’t believe I have enough strength of character to ward off every common street junky, and every dream merchant that comes down the pike, so that I’ve got my money locked up with someone trustworthy, who’s got their hand on the till, for safe keeping, so that I can’t just be hoodwinked out of my resources over nothing, ever again. It’s not some difficulty I’ve imagined or dreamed up over years of paranoia. It’s a matter of a certain ineptitude that I’m having to get help with, to help me defend my resources regularly from now on. It’s only a matter of someone else’s wisdom, that I’ve been reduced to this station in life for my own protection.

I’m not annoyed or put out, I’m honored and grateful.

 

I may very well have had my resources hoodwinked out of me, leaving me crying and starving to death, exposed to the elements, alone on a street corner in a strange city, with no one to turn to and nowhere to turn, over some kind of soft touch scam, who doesn’t care about me or my needs in the slightest, and doesn’t deserve the time of day from me, either. I know several of those personally, right off the top of my head. I’m not talking about anybody who’s been nice to me, either. Just who do you think we meet in the program of sobriety, anyway? I don’t care what the literature of the Program says, I’ve got my own delicate circumstances to defend here, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

OK, so I’ve been naive and gullible in my lifetime.

It used to be a vulnerability over a bottle of wine or a bag of weed, which was my vulnerability in life, there for awhile. More recently it was about the youth of a certain woman, and I’m not in any need to squander anything else over any of that sort of thing, anymore. The young woman showed me her true colors awhile back, and I have enough presence of mind to realize she doesn’t care about me in the slightest. She doesn’t care about anything I stand for, to be worth giving anything of my substance to her. She just wants the doe ray me, out of me, anyway she can get it, and she thinks that just as long as she can hold out her hand, I’m going to put my personal resources into it, as if I’m paying for something valuable.

All that is, is a fancy form of prostitution, and I won’t have anything more to do with it. I’ve just had enough of the drug man and the liquor store, the dope man and the prostitute, that I don’t want anyone, at all, to put their hands on my personal body, ever again. If you want me to trust you ā€“ well, good luck ā€“ because I don’t really trust much of anybody anymore. I’ve been hurt badly enough already, and have no intention of making myself available for anyone else to drive all the gas and oil out of my car anymore, or to tell my POA that they’re bringing me all my possessions, when they’re not bringing me hardly any of what belongs to me, whatsoever.

In fact, they stole everything.

I’m tired of playing that game.

Now, I’m not all that put out by the profession of prostitution, per se.

The way I look at prostitution, is that there are certain women who happen to be willing to perform a specific sort of service for a specific sort of man, under a certain specific sort of circumstances, for a specific price. It’s a perfectly respectable occupation. It’s been going on ever since the beginning of time. There are, however, other women, who will only give the illusion of providing something exceedingly intangible, for an ongoing, very dear price, where nothing of substance is ever exchanged, no goods or services either one, except that the man gives for absolutely nothing, because that sort of woman has a problem with her own self image, as if she were too good or too moral make the other kind of transaction. She’s a worse sort of whore than the other one.

The second kind of prostitute is the sort that I emphatically have no use for.

They’ll treat a man like he’s the most wonderful thing going, ever since mankind first learned how to slice cheese, and then, they’ll turn on the same man, who has been as kindhearted and gentle with them as any human man can ever muster his manners to be, and what she’ll give him in return is the biggest, most emphatic amount of nothingness, in return for money and just about everything else. If one dares to call that sort of hussy whores, there’s a whole lot of fur that flies and a whole lot of obscenities being screamed at the top of the top of the whore’s lungs. How dare anyone call her a whore! He’ll only have to submit to the most abusive language and abusive treatment, as if it’s an honorable enough transaction, where the illusion of receiving should have been enough to satisfy the poor man in the first place.

Now, I certainly hope that the ladies who have been so nice, so honorable, and so kind to me, as to do all the most wonderful things they have honored me with the gifts of, in every way, will be good enough to themselves and realize that I’m writing about someone else altogether here. I’m not taking this out of any hypothetical or undeserved context at all here. I’m writing about a specific sort of female, who refuses to leave me alone, regardless of everything I’ve done to get rid of her. She behaves as though I were her personal property, and that is not acceptable to me, at all. I am not a slave; nor am I anyone’s personal possession.

I’m not all riled up about nothing, either. I’ve even taken her at her very word, and resorted to moving to another geographical area altogether, to have an end to her possessiveness, but nothing puts an end to answering to this whore. She wants everything I have over nothing forever, and I’ve never given her that sort of commitment, or do I intend to. I’ve almost been on the verge of having her arrested, for whatever the Police Sargent would consider to be a reasonable charge against her, but I haven’t actually gone that far yet.

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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 Amazon.com.
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