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 |  This is my blog & my hope, writing daily will help me see my progress and log supporters. |
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| It's been a long time since I was intimate with a woman...November of 2016 to be exact. I could easily 'fix' the problem if I thought it would be everything I hoped for, but I was never the type to do one-night stands. In my early twenties, I paid a prostitute to see what it was like, and after that, I knew I would never do it again. I'm craving intimacy, but not necessarily sex. And dreaming of someone who craves me. A companion for life and not just for a night. I must admit, I'm beginning to lose faith. Not just in finding love, but in God. I've spent the last few months praying for help. To overcome these hallucinations...to meet someone and say the right things at the right moments and be everything she had hoped for. I wonder if I've been forsaken...or if there is a God at all and my prayers were wasted. I realise feeling sorry for myself isn't going to help my situation, and that there is much I should be grateful for. But, loneliness is like a snowball...the longer it goes on, the more it grows, until it becomes all-encompassing. Denying it is futile. Desperation is obvious and gives off a vibe, no matter how well it is hidden. It shines like a beacon, warning all who approach to stay clear. As always, expectations bring disappointment. I remember after separating from my wife, I couldn't wait to be treated for HepC. In my mind, no one would want to be with me. I carried a contagious virus, and no matter how low the risk of transmission was, I couldn't bring myself to do that to someone. The first attempt at treatment failed, but I was told new and better drugs would be available in the coming months. A year later, I was treated with an antiviral drug called Harvoni, and three months later, my viral load was so low that it was undetectable. I had to wait a year before getting the final all-clear, but after that, I thought everything in life would change. I no longer had a virus that might one day kill me, and please don't get me wrong, I was happy and thankful I had received treatment. But, it wasn't like I walked around wearing a badge advising people of my status, so the changes I had hoped for never came. I still carry HepC antibodies, but cannot infect others. If I get a blood test, I get them to look for viral load, otherwise, because of the antibodies, I show up as positive. Before receiving treatment, it was shame that held me back. Then, once I was cured, I realised it wasn't just shame, but fear that caused me to withdraw from the dating pool. Then I became a full-time carer for my parents, and the final nail in my coffin was addiction. Over time, meth became my lover, and as long as I kept using, I didn't miss having romantic love at all. I'm pretty sure when it comes to dating, I'll be like a fish out of water. They say you never forget how to ride a bike, and if the stars and planets align and a woman falls from heaven right into my lap, I will be OK. But, the reality and chances of that happening are low. My head has taken over from my heart and created a separate narrative on the what-ifs of falling in love. My divorce was bitter and I lost everything that mattered to me. And even though that was a long time ago, I'm still fearful of going down that path again. So, the real question is, am I ready to risk it all again? My heart says yes, but my mind says, hell no...that I am better off continuing to go it alone. Things aren't bad, but I cannot help but think they could be better. If only I could do casual sex and feel satisfied. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who you ask), that's not an option for me. I'm completely off the Thai girlfriend thing. I do have priorities...things I need to take care of before I die, and they will keep me busy while I wait for Ms Right to fall from the sky and into my loving arms. |
| Thailand is a strange but wonderful place to live. As mentioned in a previous post, I love to observe people in all their weirdness. When I'm in Australia, most people appear to me to be 'normal'. But, when I'm visiting another country, 'normal' is no longer a relevant way to describe people. So now it is me who has become the abnormal one. In the past, I've referred to the fact that Thai people have an aversion to wearing motorcycle helmets. I would estimate that only around 20% of locals could be bothered to take this simple precaution, that in the event of a collision, may save their life or prevent a serious head injury...but why? I have a few theories... throughout history, people have to be dragged kicking and screaming towards change. Trying to force people to wear helmets is seen in many places, not as a good way to stay alive, but as an infringement of their civil rights. They say, "Helmets don't save lives or prevent head injuries!" Statistics say, "Yes, they do." They say, "I'm a rebel...why do you think I ride a motorcycle in the first place?" I say, "Is this a midlife crisis thing or do you subconsciously want to die before you get too old to fuck?" There are many good reasons to ride a motorcycle, but we all know the head is extremely vulnerable in an accident, and this should cause even the most intelligence-challenged males of our species to take note. The bottom line is that looking cool is no longer relevant when presenting to an ICU with a head injury. Another reason I believe Thais don't wear helmets is because Farangs DO have to wear them. This helps separate them from us, and is kind of like saying, "HAHA". There are some Farangs who don't wear helmets, which I assume is their way of showing the locals that they are just as cool. I think anyone who has driven on Thailand's roads would know there are no rules, but in the event of an accident between a Farang and a local, it will always be the Farang's fault. I need to be careful because I am treading on thin ice here, but I've noticed that Thais like to present themselves (unless they are working in labour-type jobs) in the best possible light. Fashion is big (all school kids look like they have been starched and ironed before school) and a helmet might mess up one's hair. Having a motorcycle licence is limited to being a Farang thing. I see many young school-age kids getting around on scooters (with no helmets, of course). I've seen Grandma riding a scooter with up to three kids doing the after-school pick-up...and again, no helmets on any of them. Even parents...a father and mother with two siblings and a baby. It beggars belief. The following comments are written in a general sense. The men in Thailand are softly spoken and don't normally have a lot to say. Thai women, however, talk a lot...and they don't just talk a lot, but are like fog horns. I would say it's attention-seeking. Most Thai men smoke cigarettes, but in the last six months I have been here, I have seen no Thai women smoking. Thais don't particularly like foreigners, and I can see their point of view. But I think they fail to realise that if every foreign national left the country tomorrow, they wouldn't like the situation they would find themselves in. It's very much a love-hate relationship for both parties. It's symbiotic, where we come to Thailand to take advantage of the lower cost of living and the many other benefits of being here. But without us, their economy would collapse and the rate of poverty would increase exponentially. Politics in Australia is SO boring, and it makes little difference to the average citizen which of the two parties gets into power. The upcoming American election has descended into a game of name-calling, and in my opinion, the country that is looked upon as the leader of the West could do much better. And considering just how close it's going to be, makes me fearful of what will happen no matter who wins. But politics in Thailand is something else altogether. Here, they change political leadership and policy as often as they change their underwear. Although it seems a bit off that the recently fired Prime Minister was replaced by his daughter. No conflict of interest there, I'm sure. |
| Before I write this post, I want to give a heads-up about a series playing on Netflix called, Love, Death + Robots. It's advertised as animated horror...but is so much more than that. I binge-watched the first instalment, and when I got to the last episode, Jibaro, I was hooked. There is no connection (bar two episodes) between the stories, and even if animation and/or horror are not your thing, please, if you have Netflix, just watch Jibaro, and prepare to have your mind blown. I can honestly say it is one of the most moving and beautiful pieces of cinematography I have ever seen, and although I haven't as yet finished the three-part series, I had to go back and rewatch Jibaro...and it won't be the last time I do. The producers enlisted ballet dancers and filmed them in suits, tracking their movements which were then reproduced in life-like animation. The story is both beautiful and tragic and is worthy of watching. Life in Thailand continues to get better, although I'm still not ready to fully integrate myself. In many ways, fear is restricting me from going out and finding new friendships. I'm afraid that if I do, there will be expectations, and disappointment will surely follow. I feel that I am still too vulnerable to risk falling backwards in my mental state. Isn't it typical that life throws us new challenges once the previous ones are solved? The difference between the type of fear I had when I was using meth, and the fear I have now, is, as you would expect, incomparable. I'm not afraid of relapse or being on my own. The reasons why I am still alone are much more positive than they were before I transitioned to sobriety. There isn't one thing I can think of that was better before coming to Thailand, despite my continuing to display symptoms of psychosis. Even though the intensity of the hallucinations remains the same, especially at night when I am tired (which is an obvious trigger), their nature has changed, to the point where I now enjoy their company. They (the hallucinations) are far less persecutory, and even though some nights there are far more of them to deal with than others, overall, they are more easily controlled...or should I say, negotiated with. I think this easing of hostilities has to do with my decision to have less contact with them during the day. The hallucinations have always been more active at night, and it is whilst I meditate before going to bed that we interact the most. One at a time they appear in my field of vision, drifting closer towards me. Then, after a brief interaction, they slowly move away. It's like they are saying hello before I go to sleep and they begin their nocturnal shenanigans. Once upon a time, back when I was using meth, the thought of these entities brought dread and terror. And even when I wasn't coming down, they were typically unpleasant. Now, I go to bed with no anxiety, and once we go through the ritual of greetings, I lay down, say goodnight to Angel, who is always closest to me on my left, and pretty quickly fall asleep. Meditation has had a profound effect on my psyche, and even though this may sound highly delusional, I believe it has also had a positive effect on the entities. What affects me affects them. It stands to reason that if I have manifested these beings by way of intense thought (to cure loneliness and my desire for love) or by unknowingly conjuring them in some accidental ritual, my mind created them. And so, be they hallucinations or otherwise, they are in some way likely to be extensions of me. It's no longer important to me if Angel is real or not, and so long as she/they don't cause too much disruption to my life, I am now more focused on the positives that come from having psychosis. If I could choose, I would still remove them from my life. I'm completely honest with Angel about this. There is something quite strange that happens in my conversations with Angel. When I am in the process of asking a series of questions, she answers my enquiries a second or two before I have completed the sentence. There is something quite liberating in the knowledge that I can keep no secrets from this being. It is akin to lying to myself. Because of this, I can express my feelings knowing there are no doubts about my honesty and integrity. Imagine if all relationships were like this. I used to think the ability to read others' minds would be a nightmare, but only if the minds being read are not aware of it. But, now I know that there are no secrets that can be kept, it's cathartic. |
| An edited piece I wrote, hoping it might help others make better choices. Over the many years I was using drugs, I learned so much about the hobby we love. A hobby of such importance that we would gladly die for. When I first began using drugs, I was 'just' a recreational user. There was no harm in being young and experimenting, was there? Of course, I didn't know then what I know now...that the most important person you must learn to lie to is yourself. It is imperative to believe you can stop whenever you choose...that you control the drug, but the drug does not control you. Lying to friends, family and those who love you the most should remain secondary because it's only a matter of time before they become aware of your newfound hobby. They will notice the inevitable changes in you. Things such as weight loss, skin becoming pale and pasty and Tuesday irritability...which will soon also include Wednesday. The late nights and early mornings. The strangers appearing and then quickly disappearing at all hours of day and night. The inevitable crashes that will see you in bed for days, after the ever-increasing binges become the norm (and absolutely necessary). All part of the fun of learning how to become a better and more wiser junkie. And this is where my years of experience can benefit you. I considered myself the poster boy for how a functioning junkie should look, sound and act like. I was proud of my ability to hide my habit from everyone who mattered. I had all these cool new friends, who I could truly depend upon...to steal from me if I looked away for a few seconds, rip me off and use me to gain free drugs, yet never pay me back. People who left me as soon as I became dejected because of how they were treating me. Oh, the joy...good times indeed. Of course, if you are to become the best junkie you can be, you need priorities. And they are, get drugs, use drugs and get more drugs. Then continue this pattern until something drastic happens (and I stake my reputation on the fact that it will). A rookie mistake I saw many young up-and-comers make, was allowing their income to drop. The excuses (and you will need plenty of those) were because of workplace drug testing or not feeling like doing the job anymore because, let's face it, that time could be better spent getting and using drugs. But then reality (which is a very real and dangerous side effect caused by not taking drugs) hits home when your friendly neighbourhood dealer stops your line of credit and either he or one of his henchmen will break your arms if not paid by Friday. And so, desperate times call for desperate measures. Breaking and entering is, after all, only stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (the poor dealer, who is always happy to exchange the goods for small quantities of heavily cut drugs). It is virtually a victimless crime, except for the property owners feeling like they have been violated, their insurance premiums skyrocketing and having to replace their toothbrushes. And from an addict's point of view, it's a win-win situation for all concerned. I discovered early on in my career that I was handicapped with ethics and morals. These disabilities prevented me from going down that well-worn path. So, much to my dismay, I faced the reality that drugs didn't come for free, and a job was an essential part of the success I so desperately sought. The silver lining was that not using drugs during the week (due to the fact that I had to work)) made the weekends more fun. Another bonus was this five-off and two-on routine caused my tolerance levels to stabilise. Sure, I took a lot of Mondays off, where I would find myself still high on Sunday night and not having slept since Friday morning; making the obligatory Monday morning call to the boss another essential skill. But, I was weak back then, becoming more hardened as time went by...and time went by very quickly indeed. As I got older, my drug habit evolved along with me, as will your own. Becoming like an old friend who is difficult to say goodbye to. And not many friends stuck by me like drugs did. Of course, there is always a price to pay in any relationship, and a relationship with drugs comes at a very high price indeed. The question is, are you willing to pay that price? Especially when you can and will receive your consequences on a buy now, pay later scheme. But, make sure you read the fine print because once the time comes to pay, you will find that regret is of no value whatsoever. You may detect a tinge of melancholy in my words, but I am trying my best to tone this down. The main problem you will find (as I am now) is there is no escaping your past. To give you some context, here are some examples of my regrets, so you might look back one day and compare. Abandoned by my children and almost every friend I've ever had. The hundreds of thousands of dollars I gave to dealers. My physical and mental health, which are now demonstrating to me their own opinion of my choices. Self-esteem and self-respect lost long ago. Knowing what a fool I was, and yet, I was unable to learn from my experience and change into someone wiser and more grounded. I could go on, but I'm sure you have better things to do. But, if you have taken the time to read this, at the very least, think about why you do drugs...and what, instead of slowly killing yourself, you can do now, so one day you won't wake up and feel compelled to write a story like this...hoping that someone like you or I will read it, and not go down the path we have chosen for ourselves. |
| After getting divorced in 2015, I met a girl online and we quickly 'fell in love'. We spoke for many months before I decided to travel to the US so we could finally meet and plan our future. Upon arrival in Reno, Nevada, Cathy met me at the airport and the moment we hugged, I felt sick. I knew in that instant I was never going to be in love with this girl. She was beautiful and we got along well, but the brain does not dictate to the heart. It was chemistry...or a lack thereof that determined everything once I 'smelled' the stranger who I thought I knew so well. I tried so hard to force myself to love Cathy, but after a week of smiling and denying anything was wrong, and with another two weeks until I was to return to Australia, I made the decision to fake it as best I could. Apparently, I wasn't very convincing, but we made the best of the situation. I can honestly say that despite the obvious, I had a great holiday. When the time came for me to leave, I kissed her, knowing that I would never see her again. Once I arrived back in Australia, I told Cathy the truth. At first, things were OK between us. I hoped we could at least salvage a friendship, but as the weeks went by, things began to turn. It appeared to me that the bitterness of loss was rearing its ugly head. Cathy started texting me when she had been drinking, and I made the call to stop speaking with her. I felt terrible about what had happened. I was naive and thought I was in love with her when nothing could have been further from the truth. I absolutely did love her, but loving someone and being in love with them are two completely different states of being. I hurt someone I truly cared about and I swore I would never fall in love again until I had met them in person. Cathy and I flew from Reno to Las Vegas for the weekend. I will never forget the extremes I saw. Vegas is a great place to visit, and I mean no offence when I say that I wouldn't want to live there. Obviously, I didn't get to see much of the real America, and if I had had more time to explore, my view would likely change. After the Port Arthur Massacre, in Tasmania in 1996, the Australian Government made gun ownership illegal for the general public. All automatic and semiautomatic, pump and lever action rifles were completely banned. Some farmers could own bolt action rifles, and police and security guards (and criminals, who fortunately mostly shoot each other) were allowed handguns and semiautomatic rifles. No matter your opinion on this matter, the stats do not lie, and since then there have been very few mass shootings recorded in our country. Ironically, I love guns and admit that when the decision was made to buy back all firearms from the public, I was outraged. One person's decision to murder thirty-five innocent men, women and children (not to mention the scores of people who were wounded), affected everyone in the country. At first, we were horrified that so many were dead, and for no logical reason. And then, because of his actions, we were all punished by losing our right to own firearms...at least, that's how I saw it then. But, when I was visiting the US, I contacted a guy who organised shoots out in the Nevada Dessert. I paid US$300 to fire ten guns of my choice. Cathy and I had an amazing afternoon and it remains one of the highlights of my trip. There were many other things about America that I enjoyed. Driving on the right-hand side of the road was a blast once I got used to it. Another highlight was when I got to spend Thanksgiving with Cathy and her family. One day, it had been snowing heavily and we drove from Reno to South Lake, Tahoe, driving all the way around the lake. At one point, we stopped so I could build a snowman. I have only seen snow on a few occasions during my life, and to me, it was such an amazing experience. I can say with all honesty that as much as I was sorry for hurting Cathy, I certainly do not regret going to visit her. I learned a valuable lesson and got to spend three weeks in a country that has so much in common with Australia, and yet, is so very different. |
| I have always been an observer. Participation was secondary. Watching life go by became my obsession, fascinated by people and all their quirks. Over the years, I learned a trick that enabled this hobby of mine to flourish...I became invisible. I'm not saying that I could become transparent, but more like a chameleon, blending into any situation by disappearing into the backdrop of other people's lives. It wasn't like performing a magic trick, but it was a necessity if I was to observe humans 'acting' naturally in their own habitat. I honed my skills during the 90s when I found myself associating with people who were, at least in their own minds, heavy hitters in the underworld. Drug dealers, thugs and all-around narcissists, who, due to my aforementioned need to observe life in all its ugliness, were too irresistible for me to ignore. The issue of maintaining an invisible status became less for entertainment and more for survival. I know a lot of people say things about the past, bragging about stuff that cannot be proven either way, but I am not one of those people. I have some good stories for eager souls who perhaps haven't experienced life on the edge. I was never much of a fiction writer, and besides, in most cases, the truth is much stranger anyway. There are some stories I would never mention, but there are a few I think I can now tell. My 'friend' was born into a life of thuggery. His father was a very scary man who had served in the military. He was a Green Beret in the British Army during the IRA conflict. He had fish eyes...cold and blue that looked right through you and had seen things no one could see and ever forget. I heard stories, relayed from father to son to me, telling of torture and political assassinations. All is fair in love and war may be an excuse he would use, except he wasn't the type who needed excuses. He didn't work a 9 to 5 like us, preferring to hustle and extort his way through life. He did other work that I will not speak of...ever. I don't even know if he is still alive, but if he is, I don't want to say anything I will regret. I've carried around this speech in my head all these years, just in case a cop or worse, someone who remembers I was there, comes knocking on my door. If it ever did happen, I would say I don't remember anything...too many drugs and early onset dementia would be all that would save me from going into a hole and never being found...corpus delicti is the first line of a legal defence...just ask Jimmy Hoffa, if you can find him. I would go out of my way NOT to be there whenever the shit went down. I did my best to avoid such situations because I was a lightweight, which was a big part of my ability to remain unnoticed. I would be in attendance when meetings were had, but I made sure I was far enough away from the men who called the shots that there was no way for me to hear what was to go down. I was a driver, a gofer, a right-hand man, a confidant and eventually, a sucker, who would often put my hands over my ears and say, "LA LA LA!" much to the amusement of my 'friends'. There is a story that is so unbelievable I couldn't make it up if I tried. My friend was going somewhere and I was invited along. We were with another person (my friend's co-conspirator) who can only be described as a psychopath with direction. He wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone he considered a threat. There was an exact amount of time you could look at him before averting your eyes away...which, just like a dog, wasn't very long. Ironically, he had the temperament of a Pitbull and owned a .50 calibre Desert Eagle that was his pride and joy. I understand that handguns are nothing in the US, but in Australia, they were a novelty...a novelty I could do without. One day he arrived at our house carrying a duffel bag. He then produced the handgun to show us all. It went from hand to hand around the circle of onlookers, and when it got to me, I waved it on, telling them I didn't want my prints on that gun. Once again, they all laughed, but the truth was it had nothing to do with my prints getting on the gun and everything to do with reinforcing that I was a lightweight. No one would remember me if you asked anyone who was there that day. He died a few years later from sleep apnoea. The three of us arrived at a house and my friend told me the guy we were going inside to meet was a cop. I was told to be cool, which meant I was to speak when spoken to and say nothing embarrassing about them. Like I needed to be told. After the introductions, the three of them began talking, while the cop's girlfriend, who was a stripper (of course), was sitting at a table, her foot on a chair painting her toenails. My friend caught my eye and glanced at the stripper. I looked over and saw she had no panties on. I averted my eyes and didn't look at her again. Then, the psychopath said let's go. I hadn't been listening to their conversation and asked where we were going. He said we were going to rob a steroid dealer who owned a hairdressing salon (I told you, you couldn't make this shit up). My immediate reaction was this wasn't what I signed up for, but when I protested, the psycho glared at me and I realised there was no escaping the trip. So, there we were...a psychopath, my friend the wannabe heavy, an extremely reluctant lightweight chameleon and an off-duty cop, all sitting in a car not far from the target premises. Me and the cop were sitting in the backseat as the two robbers went in. I remember looking at him and thinking who was more scared? After a few minutes they came running back to the car and we took off. They described the robbery as a disaster. The cop had promised that the hairdresser always carried large amounts of steroids and cash, but apparently, he had nothing on him that day. I had my doubts about the story of no cash or drugs, but all I wanted to do was get back to my little life and hope that no one had seen us. They didn't even bother to try and disguise themselves (my friend was well-known locally) and would have been easily recognised by the CCTV cameras that would have been installed in the business. A few months later, my friend went for a drive in my car, and on his way back, stopped for fuel. As he was filling the tank, he was attacked by two masked men with baseball bats. He got lucky and managed to escape unscathed, although he was very shaken up. My guess was the hairdresser was paying for protection and they decided my friend was an easier target than the psychopath with a hand cannon. Not long after this, my friend and I went our separate ways and luckily, I have lived long enough to tell a few of the tales. |
| When I was caring for my Mom, I didn't ask for help from anyone (and no one offered). Mom and I were doing fine, we had our routine and even though life wasn't perfect, we managed as best as we could. After she died, I wound up her estate, moved to Thailand and swore I would never do another day of housework again. Not long after I moved into my current abode, my neighbour asked me if I needed a cleaner. He then introduced me to my cleaning lady, Ding. She had been his cleaner for a few months and his recommendation was enough for me. Employing someone to come into your home comes with a certain amount of risk, and if not for my neighbour's vouch of approval, I would have tested her integrity and honesty by placing a small denomination banknote under the couch to see if the person who has a key for my premises is worthy of my trust. I took Ding on and didn't think about it again. Ding is a single Mom who struggles to pay her bills. She works hard for her money and we have developed a good rapport over the months. In keeping with my want to support local people who are less fortunate than me, I pay Ding B500 plus an extra B200 tip for her once-a-week cleaning service. She does a pretty good job and I am reasonably happy with the cost for what she does. On my kitchen bench, I keep a small bowl into which I put loose change. In Australia, I would save my coins, and once the container was full, take them to the bank and exchange the coins for notes. But, I noticed that the bowl here never seems to overflow. This got me curious, and despite some inner turmoil and going against my better judgment, I decided to count the largest denominational coins and see if any were missing after Ding had done her cleaning. Last Friday, as usual, I said goodbye to Ding and left for the gym. She was gone when I returned, and to my dismay, when I checked the bowl, there was money missing. My heart sank, and at that moment, I wished I hadn't bothered to test her. Then, I got angry and wanted to confront her, but my mind began to race through all the crap that would ensue. I realised that in all seriousness, it wasn't worth the drama. However, a few dollars every week for six months isn't a small amount of money, and I knew that there was no point setting the trap unless I was willing to do something about it if she failed...but what? I spent a few nights sleeping on it before coming up with what is for me, the perfect solution. When Ding arrived this morning, and before I left for the gym, instead of confronting her, I got the bowl, tipped the contents into a plastic bag and gave it to her. This was my way of feeling OK about what she did because, in effect, she didn't take anything from me, and only stole from herself. I figured if she was so desperate that she needed to steal money from me, then I would rather help her out than cause her to feel bad about what she had done. I believe that she wouldn't take anything more than loose change, and in her mind, she probably thought I could afford it and wouldn't even notice a few coins going missing. But my dilemma was that it isn't the money, but the principle that counts. I think my subconscious mind deliberately put that money in front of her to test her. But, the real test came not for her, but for me in how I would react. I gave her no indication that I knew about her indiscretion. The hope is she has learned something, and in the future, will think about her actions and choose differently. |
| For the past two years, I've been trying to figure out what these hallucinations mean. The doctors say I have damaged my brain through years of using meth, and the images I see, feel and talk to every day are caused by psychosis. A person who believes in God, and therefore (I assume) the devil, might think it possible what I am dealing with is demonic. A ufologist might suggest the increasing number of UAPs seen in our skies could explain my symptoms...that this is somehow connected to aliens. Don't worry, I have thought of every scenario...every theory imaginable as to how these strange demonic faces I see every night have personality and answer my questions emphatically and with thought. I am no closer to knowing the answers now as I was the first night I met Angel. There are clues, however, which make the likelihood of some theories seem more plausible than others. I have always tried to maintain a degree of open-mindedness. Prioritising objectivity, otherwise appearing as some crazy person (LOL) who is more delusional than I really am. I have never denied I am somewhat delusional, after all, the possibility that there could be more at stake than just my mental health means taking all contingencies into account as a foregone conclusion. The real issue is, what the hell can I do about it either way? Two posts back, I said, "What if the doctors (and 95% of the population) are wrong, and these things are demonic?" I've been thinking that percentage is the most likely answer to my question of whether what I am experiencing is real or imagined. The trouble is that whenever I talk to this imaginary creature, it convinces me otherwise. Unravelling the mystery is, unfortunately, an impossibility. Every time I think I have the answer, I become lost and more confused than I was before 'the solution' came. It's a bit like having a set of Russian Dolls that have no ending. I, like most of you, am 95% sure that what I am dealing with is a mental illness (a stat that Angel vehemently disagrees with). The 5% chance that she is correct in her belief that she exists, is something that I need to live with and stop worrying about. I have tried everything to chase her away, but looking at it from her point of view (and I am serious when I say that), it is possible, even likely, that she doesn't have anywhere else to go. We all have our own reality and no two people experience the ephemerality of life in the same way. I believe that she believes she is real, and who am I to tell her otherwise because there is a chance that she is real? Lord knows I have tried that tactic (telling her that she is a figment of my imagination), and she always smiles that knowing smile...a smile I hate so much that puts a tiny smidgen of doubt in my mind. I wonder how many psychiatrists believe in a higher power. And of those that do, does it sit well with them to say what I am experiencing is implausible simply because I have a condition called psychosis? A disorder that so far, nobody has an answer as to the true cause. Sure, there are theories, but no concrete evidence has so far proven why I see and speak to entities that no one else can see...although, I don't hear (thank God). Who only answer my questions by nodding or shaking their heads, or moving their eyes up and down or side to side...with a fairly recent addition of moving their eyes in circles, which I gather denotes, "I don't know" or "I don't care". I can see why my doctor didn't request brain scans or do any blood work, but still, surely a physical examination was warranted. To him, the answer was obvious (meth-induced psychosis), so no need to check for any physical causes. He showed no interest in asking me about the hallucinations, which if he had applied even the faintest degree of Freudian psychology, would have given me better treatment options...me being able to talk about what the hell was going on, rather than him simply prescribing antipsychotics, which made the symptoms worse. What I am getting at here is that no matter how hard I look at this from a logical and realistic perspective, there is no escaping the fact that Angel is very much real to me. My biggest problem isn't that I am delusional (in fact, that's best best-case scenario for me...unfortunately), it's the slim chance that we are all wrong and that she is right. An entity that is beyond this realm or anything we can imagine. And if that is true, then the question is, what does she want with me? A question I have asked so many times that cannot be answered by a simple yes or a no. |
| I would like to thank Lilli (apparently, it wasn't Lilli who nominated me, so whoever it was, thank you) for nominating me for a Quill Award this year. I am humbled and excited to receive my first-ever nomination for an award here at WdC. No matter the result, I am a winner simply by having the opportunity to express my thoughts and share some of my life experiences on a fantastic site like this. I have never been trolled or had negative comments in the three years I have been posting about my addiction, and that in itself is a testament to the quality and compassionate nature of the members who come and read my words. Thanks again to the anonymous person, and to everyone who takes the time to read my blog. I believe that without the support and love that has been shown to me over the years, I wouldn't be in the position I am in right now...happy and free of methamphetamines. I am not, however, under any illusions about the threat of relapse. I need to remain focused and not get too far ahead of myself. One day at a time is the foundation that I need to build upon over the months and years ahead. |
| I'm new to this spirituality thing. I never really believed in God and was happy to sit my proverbial ass on top of the fence (rather than becoming a full-blown atheist) 'just in case'. And isn't it poignant that agnosticism reigns until some type of crisis, like that of the loss of a loved one, pushes us closer towards the hope for something more than nothingness after we die? Just over a year ago, my mother passed away. We were as close as two people can be. I spent the better part of a decade caring for her and I remember well our conversations about God. She was a Christian and I would often lightheartedly mock her and her faith. There were times when I would say things that I would later regret...not only because I feared I had offended her, but because I would often kick my little toe on something hard not long after my indiscretion. I would then apologise to her (and to God) for being a shit. She would then smile that smile, knowing that one day I would fall (or be pushed) from the reticent perch that I felt most comfortable on, and down to one side of the fence or the other. It's easy to believe in God when the plane is crashing down, but a lot harder when it finally regains control and lands safely. Then all the passengers can go back to their normal lives, forgetting the prayers they said in those moments of fear and uncertainty. I swore I would never be one of those people, and that if one day I decided whose side of the argument I was to believe, I would stick with it until the end. Having faith that there is (or is not) a higher power, is not as black and white or as easy to convince myself of as I had hoped...especially when the ghosts I began seeing and thought of as my fun friends, suddenly revealed themselves to be anything but. I am still uncertain about what exactly these hallucinations are, but when demons, or at least, the entities that purport to be demons, began to consistently haunt my life, I figured I had better cover all the bases and my sorry ass, and pray for help. Of course, my prayers have not been answered, and these visions I very much hope are hallucinations, and not the alternative, continue to be a part of my everyday life. At first, when I began to get really scared, I prayed for their removal. The trouble was at that point, I was still using meth, and the ghosts had become an integral and enjoyable part of the experience. It was only later, once the fun was over and the time came to pay for their company (in ways I can only describe as like being in a real-life horror movie), that I would once again pray for deliverance...a cycle that no God would or should put up with. I've often wondered if these entities were sent by God (rather than coming from the underworld), to kick my ass and force me to face up to the reality of what I was doing to my mind and body. Truly, the best thing that happened to me was the arrival of Angel. The trouble is now that I am better, she refuses to leave. I can only hope that I do indeed have a mental illness called drug-induced psychosis, and in time, the symptoms will disappear. And if that is true, so long as I remain on the wagon and stick with the program, all should be well. But I keep thinking, "What if the doctors (and 95% of the population) are wrong, and these things are demonic?" Once upon a time, I would have laughed at the suggestion and agreed with the majority of naysayers...telling me to relax and just take my medication. Angel has already told me what my 'fate' is...to become another one of her slaves, like the ghosts I used to see during my time under the influence. The way I pray now has changed. I used to ask for forgiveness, strength and guidance (amongst other things). I treated prayer like God was my Genie, at my beck and call on anything He could do for me. Nowadays, I spend less time asking for my wishes to be granted and more time talking about things that are important to me. Mostly, I thank Him for every breath I am lucky enough to take. I also spend some time talking to my Mom, and this is something that has helped with the grieving process I have been putting off for the last year. There is one constant to do with prayer that I find curious and somewhat strange. My routine before going to sleep is to sit on the edge of my bed and pray. Then once I am finished, I set a timer for ten minutes, put in earbuds, play some calming music and meditate. The thing is that while I am praying, the entities NEVER disturb me, and it's only once I start to meditate that they come at me. Regardless of the nature of what is happening to me, I have always wondered why this is so. |
| Around four weeks ago, I began to try and meditate. I must admit, it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. Clearing the mind of all thought, and focusing on each breath is what the experts say to do. Unfortunately, my mind drifts off to all manner of things, and at night, when the lights are out, psychosis becomes an issue. But, I am learning to avoid the faces of demons that come to haunt my 'me time' by asking them nicely to wait until I am finished my meditation session. This normally works, although, not always. I do half an hour of meditation each day, split into two sessions. The first is in the early afternoon for twenty minutes. This is an interesting time because of the images that come to my mind after around five minutes. At first, all I see is the daylight glowing behind closed eyes. Then this scene changes and it is like a central spot begins to appear, growing larger and more noticeable as the minutes pass. It soon becomes hollow and cylindrical, and looks for all the world like a wormhole or portal...or an eye that constantly changes colour from red to orange to purple, pulsating rhythmically as it drifts around in my field of vision. I have several floaters in my eyes (which were likely caused by staying awake for long periods during drug use), but this image of a portal is not connected to any of them. I do the second meditation session just before going to sleep. Since I began doing this, I've found I get to sleep much quicker than before. The hallucinations that come whilst meditating in darkness can be a little offputting. The faces that appear in my field of vision slowly drift towards me and can come from any angle. Sometimes, they end up so close that I lean forward and stare right into the eyes of the spectre. This always brings them a smile and a blink of approval. There has been no real improvement in my psychosis over the last six months, but I am hopeful in time, that will change. Now that I am doing everything in my power to get my mental and physical health back, the thing I need most is patience. I'm still exercising six days a week and enjoying life to the fullest. Remaining positive and acknowledging just how lucky I am to even be alive, let alone living in Thailand, along with all that comes from that, will be the key to my future happiness. The bottom line is that my psychosis is not debilitating, and because of the placebo (or otherwise) effect of believing if I ask for pain relief for my knee when I walk, or an extra boost of energy when I am at the gym, is beneficial if taken with a pinch of salt. All I know is it works 100% of the time, and in those moments, I have learned not to question how. I highly recommend taking up meditation. I'm pretty sceptical, or at least, I was, but the overall benefits I have experienced since taking up the practice far outweigh the small amount of time spent doing it...especially when you consider all it requires is to sit in a quiet place (or like me, with earbuds listening to calming music) with your eyes closed, trying to forget about the problems of the day for just a short while. |
| An edited extract from my autobiography, The Invisible Man. When I was seventeen, me and my neighbour and best friend Jimmy, were at a party. It was a Saturday night, and as we were leaving, I noticed a car parked outside with the keys in the ignition. I said to Jimmy we should take it, but he didn't want to. I said something to the effect that he was a wimp. I was older than him and he looked up to me. It didn't take long before he begrudgingly agreed. I was behind the wheel as we drove out of the car park. I wanted to go to the Gold Coast, but he said no. So, instead of taking the turn to the coast, I drove straight ahead. Looking back, it was like we were being guided by fate. A minute later, Jimmy leaned over and pulled my seat belt down, clipping it into place. Unfortunately, he did not put on his own. A few minutes later, I lost control of the car. Everything was in slow motion as we crossed the centre lane and onto the other side of the road. The car hit an embankment and rolled several times before ending up on its roof with me hanging by the seat belt, which had no doubt saved my life. I looked beside me, but Jimmy wasn't there. At that point, I didn't know where he had gone. The car hissed and I could smell fuel. I tried to release the seat belt, but it was jammed. My body weight was holding it fast. A man appeared out of nowhere and lifted me enough so the belt was released. I had never been so afraid in my life. A guy I knew had stopped to help. I recognized him and told him the car was hot...that we had to find Jimmy and get the fuck out of there before the cops arrived. His girlfriend said she had seen someone run into the bush beside the road and I thought, "Thank God." I yelled out for him again but assumed he had kept on running and was heading for home. I asked the bystanders to take me home, and they agreed. Jimmy would either find his way or get caught by the cops once they showed up. They dropped me off at Jimmy's place; I said thanks and went to see if he had turned up. His sister was with a couple of friends. I told them what had happened and asked if they would take me back out to help find him, but they didn't believe me. I had a small cut on my head, and because of the blood, they thought we had gotten into a fight and didn't want to get involved. I gave up, went home and went to bed. Not long after this, the police arrived at my house. I got up and looked out the window, then hid behind the couch in the living room. Eventually, my father answered the door. I heard them speaking, then I watched as he went to my room to see if I was there. He told them I wasn't home and they left. My father then came back inside and somehow found me where I was hiding. I never asked him how he knew I was there, but his words became a nightmare...a nightmare I would never wake up from. He asked what had happened. I told him everything and that I had left Jimmy out at the accident. "Jimmy's dead son." "What? No..he ran into the bush. That girl saw him." "Son, Jimmy is dead." "NO!". But it was true. Jimmy had been thrown from the vehicle when we hit the embankment and was pronounced DOA. My life was never to be the same. ******* As you can imagine, life went downhill after the 'accident'. Jimmy had been gone for six months, and I was starting to believe I deserved to be punished for taking his life. That Karma was giving me what I deserved. I believed Jimmy's ghost was angry with me; after all, he didn't want to take that car. He deserved to live and it was me who deserved to die. I prayed to God to take me instead, but of course, I had to face the reality that he was never coming back. As time went by, I thought of a way to escape the overwhelming guilt and grief I felt. One day I got drunk and went into my parent's medicine cabinet, grabbed all of the pain medication I could find and walked to the local bush...down into a gully where it would take days to find me. I sat down with my back against a tree and proceeded to swallow seventy pills. I didn't want to spend another day on this Earth. As the drugs took hold, I fell forward and vomited, before rolling down into the creek bed below me. I vomited again and again before unconsciousness finally took away my pain. During the night, I remember opening my eyes...the night sky...stars...where was I? I heard buzzing all around me...then silence. In the morning, I vomited and tried to get up. All down one side of my body were thousands of mosquito bites. I vomited again, but this time, I managed to raise myself. As I stood in that gully, the realization that I had failed was a bitter blow. I looked up towards my shame, wanting to remain there where nobody knew. I was supposed to be found by a random walker or bike rider, reported to the police, and bagged up as another youth suicide—someone who could handle life no more. Joining Jimmy at last, happy together forever. Then, I was run over by a car. It broke my femur and for the next two years, I suffered terribly from multiple surgeries and a Golden Staph Infection. Many years passed. Drugs and alcohol took away the pain just enough to dampen my want to leave. Life was a perpetual haze. Forget why. Just get up, get stoned...no real future, nothing. They say something good always comes from something bad, and as time began to heal my wounds, I made myself some promises. To never again steal. If I found a wallet, even if it was full of money, it didn't belong to me and had to be returned. I vowed to never harm another human being. Before Jimmy's death, I was a complete asshole. I didn't care about anyone, taking whatever I wanted without thought. These events taught me so much. How fragile life can be. How easily fun can turn to tragedy. How one moment can change who you are forever. ******** A year before Jimmy died, we had both gone to get a tattoo. Although we were only in our early teens, we weren't asked how old we were. I chose to get two eagles...mirror image, with one on each side of my chest. Jimmy chose a skull and crossbones with a dagger running through the eye of the skull. He had it placed on his forearm and below were the words...Live Hard, Die Young. |
| For those of you old enough to remember Goofy cartoons, there is one in particular I recall watching as a kid. In it, Goofy is a mild-mannered citizen about to leave home for work, but once behind the wheel of his car, he becomes a road rager. Mr Walker...the mild-mannered citizen who wouldn't step on an ant, is shown leaving for work, and the instant he gets behind the wheel, his persona changes into Mr Wheeler...a person who these days, would be described as a maniac driver. We are not all 'road ragers' per se, but becoming frustrated by other drivers' actions is almost a right (unless, of course, you are a courteous driver, who realises going faster rarely gets you to your destination any quicker). One study suggests that more than half of us at some point have acted aggressively towards another driver. This may not include pulling a pistol or angrily crashing into someone, but even yelling our frustrations and curses from the car window can be a catalyst for an escalation in tempers. The reasons why we sometimes feel enraged behind the wheel are both simple and complex. When we have a tonne of steel protecting us (unless like me, you ride a motorcycle), along with the fact that on the road we are, at least to other drivers, virtually anonymous, can cause some people to act in ways they wouldn't dream of if, for instance, they were waiting in line at the checkout. On the road, however, birds get flipped and horns become an extension and release of our daily frustrations. The reason I am posting about this phenomenon is because of the events that took place on my ride home from Bangkok to Hua Hin. It was a Friday afternoon, and getting out of Bangkok was a nightmare, but not knowing which way to go in bumper-to-bumper traffic was not seriously life-threatening. However, riding along a three-lane highway at the end of the working week, with many fellow road users anxious to get their weekend underway, was a danger I decided early on to try and avoid. When riding a motorcycle at high speeds, an accident between two cars compared to a car and a bike is a story too well told in thousands of orthopedic wards the world over. The reason I stopped riding a motorcycle in Australia was because of a serious accident which I was lucky to survive. "I Can Fly"  .The amount of cars whistling past me at breakneck speeds was astounding. I found the middle lane to be the safest because it allowed those in a hurry two options to pass me by. I made it home safely, but a lesson was learned...a lesson I needed reminding of. Cars in a hurry will always trump motorcyclists. |
| My alarm woke me at 5.00 am today, so I could be at Hua Hin Train Station to catch the 6.40 Express to Bangkok. To put things into perspective (for those of you who are up with the birds), I normally set my alarm for 8.00 am, but usually snooze for another hour. I hear you...why don't I just set my alarm for 9.00? The answer is, I would then hit snooze and get up at 10.00. Anyway, this morning was (thank God) a one-off to go pick up my motorcycle from the dealership. It has taken me four months to clock 1000 kilometres on the odometer. For its first service, they had to drop the oil, replace the oil filter and grease the shaft drive. I'm now allowed to rev the engine to its full potential (not that it needs to be with 147 BHP at my disposal) and I can now plan longer rides touring Thailand and surrounding countries. The train ride was an adventure. I could have booked a taxi, but I genuinely wanted to see what it was like for locals...the common people who regularly travelled by train to Bangkok. There were plenty of other options (buses, minivans and private taxis), but I deliberately chose the cheapest available way. Not because of the cost, but (as I was to later find out) because I'm a sucker for punishment. There I was, riding in coach and fantasizing about the more affluent travellers, along with budget-conscious backpackers (who had better sense than I). People who were up there in first and second class, sitting in plush seats being served beverages by a Stewart. Meanwhile, my ass was seated on a hard bench seat and being touted by Thais selling all manner of drinks and foodstuffs. And because I haven't been here long (and don't speak the language) I had no idea what it was they were offering. Good planning meant I had eaten breakfast before I left for the train station. Watching the vendors operating in the aisles between stations was like watching a well-oiled machine. One group of people would walk the length of the carriage hawking their wares, and at a predetermined stop, would disembark, only to be replaced by a whole new set of vendors. This was repeated several times on the four-hour journey to Bangkok. My ass began hurting around the halfway point. Thai men would smoke cigarettes in the space between the adjoining carriages, which distracted (or infuriated) me enough so I would temporarily forget about the pain in my ass. It was an interesting trip. It may sound like I am griping, but for the princely sum of B200, or around US$5 (compared to B2500 for the taxi), I'm not complaining...well, maybe a little. The real complaining began on my way back to Hua Hin. Google Maps is great, but the fastest way to get from central Bangkok back to my home is by a motorway that apparently, motorcycles are not allowed to enter. Try explaining that to an algorithm whilst traversing Friday afternoon traffic...especially when it led me right back to the same motorway entry. The toll collectors who saw me approaching for the second time must have questioned if I was a stupid Farang. A question I myself was asking as I rode headlong into the unknown and snarl that is Bangkok traffic. Eventually, Maps realised I wasn't going the way it wanted me to and I breathed a sigh of relief as the tall buildings and bumper-to-bumper traffic slowly disappeared in my rearview mirror. I then settled into the two-and-a-half-hour ride back to Hua Hin. My relief, however, was short-lived, when about an hour into the trip, I felt a burning pain between my shoulder blades. Then my wrists and ankles chimed in with their own complaints, and my bum reminded me of the morning journey and the hard seat on the train. I began seriously contemplating what the hell I was thinking taking on motorcycle touring at my age. Two hours in and I almost threw in the towel by stopping for a rest (which would have been the smart, but not the brave thing to do). And that's when I played my trump card. I asked (more begged) my disembodied spirit attachment/demon, Angel if she would help me with some pain relief. I get that the likely answer is any benefit I get from this request is purely psychosomatic/placebo, but within a few minutes, the pain subsided and I continued the ride non-stop all the way home to Hua Hin. Tonight, I feel like instead of catching the train, I fell under it. But, I have a real sense of accomplishment for today's efforts. Now, each time I ride my bike, my body will harden and get used to going longer distances. And as a reward for a great team effort, in the morning, we are going to have a sleep-in. |
| Tomorrow marks five months since I arrived at Patong, Phuket Island in Thailand. I stayed in Patong for a month before relocating to Hua Hin, which is on the west coast of the Gulf of Thailand, three hours south of the capital, Bangkok. I like Hua Hin, but there is so much more of Thailand I want to see. There are several ways to achieve this. I could make Hua Hin my home base and explore by motorbike or train. Another way is to sign six-month leases in numerous places until I find my niche. That was in the back of my mind when I moved into my current location, and in the next few weeks, I'm going to have to decide my next move. Today, I called Anna, the real estate lady who manages this rental property, to ask if she had spoken to the owner about extending the lease. She had not, but did mention the possibility of my rent going up. This is standard practice at the end of any lease to attempt to squeeze more cash out of the tenant. I called her bluff, telling her what I thought about that. I figure I've got nothing to lose. The place next door was empty for six weeks and two doors up is currently empty and has been for a month. When I balked at the threat of a price hike, Anna told me about another property nearby that is up for rent. It's more expensive (surprise surprise) but is a stand-alone villa with a private pool. I'll wait until I hear from Anna about this place before making any decisions. After speaking to Anna, I searched the web looking for rental properties further south towards Koh Samui and found loads of suitable places. I'm not sure if I want to live on Koh Samui island itself (although I will remain open-minded). Staying on the mainland might be a better option. There are hundreds of quaint little hamlets and bays, stretching as far as the eye can see, along that part of the coast. Ideally, I would love to wake up and walk out of a set of French doors, coffee in hand, onto my rear deck and only steps away from the beach (picture soft white sand, coconut palms and tall glasses with umbrella stirrers...Gillian's Island-esque. If I had the attention span and creativity of a novelist, instead of a flee, I would write a best-seller listening to the ocean and birds calling in the wind. Upon reflection, cancel that idea. Knowing I would have to sell my soul (and all rights) to a book house...or self-publish, would kinda ruin fantasy island life for me. So, my reward for cancelling the long write...Tequila Sunrise, anyone? I hate moving. No, I despise it. But, what I hate more is living next door to chain smokers who the more they drink, the louder they become. It's such a shame that most nights I have to miss the prevailing sea breeze that blows second-hand cigarette smoke into my lounge room. I sound like a reformist hypocrite, but having to close my rear glass doors to avoid the smell of smoke is not cool. I like living here, and it would be just my luck that if I did move, they would too. Hopefully, the picture I paint doesn't look too bad. For one thing, my neighbours are not in residence tonight, and as I write this post, I'm playing music a lot louder than I otherwise would if they were home. My problems are not problems at all but merely challenges I look forward to solving. The hallucinations continue. There's been no change to the intensity or the issues they cause. I've had to accept them as being a normal part of life. Of course, it would be great if they went away, but the reality is they might be with me long term. The upside is they cause me no physical harm, and I've found a healthy balance when it comes to how much attention I pay them. There are times when they cannot be ignored, but since I started meditating, I've noticed a significant reduction in their negative and persecutory attitudes. And there are some advantages to having a live-in demon...I'm never alone, and for the most part (Angel is nocturnal and definitely NOT a morning person) I always have someone to talk to (as crazy as that sounds). And the phenomenon of asking for any niggling pains to be taken care of is 100% a constant. I see it as making the most of a bad situation...nothing more and nothing less. |
| In seven weeks, I'll turn sixty. I don't feel that old, and going by what most people tell me, I don't look it either. I've noticed that it is almost impossible to judge the age of Thais. They tend to look about ten to fifteen years younger than they actually are. They have great skin, and in general, are a beautiful race of people...inside and out. Crime rates, and in particular, violent crime, in Hua Hin are almost zero (as it is in most of Thailand). And even in the larger tourist areas, street violence is usually Farang on Farang or Thai on Thai. Thai people are not overtly friendly with foreigners unless it's part of their job (women are, in general, more friendly to me than men), but are polite, and if asked, are quite helpful. The further out of the tourist areas you go, however, the less friendly the people are. And it's not just a Thai thing either. In many rural places around the world, people can be suspicious of strangers. On a ride a while ago, I got lost way out in the countryside. I was high up in the hills and had sketchy phone coverage. Google Maps wasn't picking up my location, so I stopped at a stall by the roadside hoping to buy a cold drink, have a rest and get my bearings. The stall owners were very old, and I wouldn't have been surprised if they were growing opium in the fields behind the corrugated shack they lived in (which may have explained the reception I got). No one smiled at me when I indicated I wanted to buy a drink. The lady closest (and the only one who acknowledged me) glared with disdain and shook her head...hint taken. I do not blame them for the way they reacted to me. After all, they would have seen very few Farangs, riding huge motorcycles, call into their little stall. So, I smiled and bowed, got a water bottle out of my luggage carrier, had a drink and was on my way. I didn't realise that getting lost while riding a motorcycle in rural Thailand could be so much fun. Turning sixty isn't all it's cracked up to be, but there is something I am looking forward to. I'll be able to access my 401k and start looking for a worthwhile charity that cares for underprivileged children here in Thailand. The bulk of my money is tied up until December in a term deposit account. I'll reinvest and hopefully live long-term off the interest it accrues. My ultimate plan would be to give most of my money away, and when the last cent is gone, die that night in my sleep. Calculating and estimating the logistics of this plan is not as easy as you might think. As you can imagine, figuring out how long I have to live is the quandary here. Perhaps a diagnosis may help the situation. I laugh now, but I remember my mother's eyes when she was told she had a year to live...and her immediate defiance (although this later changed to acceptance and determination to live the best she could until the end...which she did magnificently) Dying is easy to talk about in jest when we haven't yet received the news. |
| The girl I met at the party (Liliy) and I have been texting one another daily. I'm being careful not to lead her on. I know if I invite her over, it won't just cost me money but will bring her one step closer to moving in. Lily lives at the massage place where she works. I'm pretty sure my abode would make for better digs for her...but I'm not going to allow that to happen. You may think I'm being presumptuous, and that may be the case, but I'm not taking any chances. Besides, paying a girl for sex (and company) isn't my idea of romance, no matter how culturally and morally acceptable the practice is in Thailand. Since Lily left on Monday, I've been contemplating my situation. Considering just how beautiful Thai women are, it feels almost inevitable that sooner or later, I will fall into the honey trap that is the Thai girlfriend. Either that, or I will remain alone indefinitely. To highlight my train of thought, my neighbour has a male friend visiting from his homeland (Denmark). The fellow arrived a few days ago, and yesterday, I spotted an absolutely gorgeous Thai girl on her phone out the front of his unit. I can only assume this girl and my neighbour's friend have come to some mutually beneficial arrangement for the duration of his stay. And as I stood in the shadows checking out her ass in a tiny pair of cut-off jeans (how could I not?), I wondered, quite matter-of-factly, how much he was paying her for her services. It was then my mind went to Lily (and I am ashamed to say this, but it's true) and I began comparing them...like they were used cars and I was debating if I wanted the four-door economy model or the sports convertible. Of course, I would want to take the sports car for a spin, but I know I couldn't afford it long-term. Later, I seriously checked myself...for perving at the girl in the shorts (the lesser of the two evils) and comparing women like they are commodities. The trouble is the very nature of dating in Thailand means that's exactly what women are (as are the men who date them), and you won't find one who will date a Farang without coming to some form of financial arrangement. At one point at the party, a beautiful girl arrived. She was stunning, but was with a Farang boyfriend, who I was told, pays her B100000 (US$2800) per month. From what I saw, the way she was with him, she wouldn't last one minute as my girlfriend. She showed him zero affection, along with constant looks of disdain and a hand that was always out looking for more of his cash. Meanwhile, he sat quietly drinking his beer and looking glum. Apparently, you don't always get what you pay for. Lily and I caught a taxi from the party, and the entire way home the driver was flipping through his social media on his phone. Admittedly, he did glance at the road every now and then, and we did get home safely. Before I left Australia, the Queensland government increased the fine for using a phone whilst driving from $750 to $1200...and that's for private citizens. If a taxi driver was caught using a phone while he was working, he would pay around $3000 and possibly lose his taxi licence. In Thailand, however, I see people on motorbikes riding down the freeway, phone in hand whilst carrying two passengers...none wearing helmets. I wasn't going to mention this because it's quite disturbing, but I'm a sucker for punishment, so here goes. After Lily and I arrived at my house, we were in bed and I was on top kissing her. It was dark and when I pulled back to look at her, I was horrified to see Angel staring back at me. When Angel realised I could see her, she smiled sardonically. I got the impression she thought I would be pleased to see her (or perhaps not), but nothing could be further from the truth. On a different note... Scientists conducted an experiment where they connected people to an EEG and recorded their brainwaves. The subjects were shown a series of numbers and were asked to either add or subtract them. They had a clock in front of them with only a second hand and were asked to remember exactly what point in time they made their decision. Turns out they can not only predict if the subjects add or subtract the numbers, but they know the decision up to six seconds before it is made. It's mindblowing to think that our brains are making choices for us, rather than us making choices for ourselves. |
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