Holding to my precepts, which involve a perception of my life and my surroundings that I would like to believe values life over prejudice, I am attempting to communicate sad and painful emotions which have arisen in the course of a period of struggle with separation, collapse and foolish contact with friends with whom I have engaged in that part of criminality attached to drug (methamphetamine) use.
A little over a week ago, I declared my independence from my brother, with whom I have mostly been staying for two and a half years on the north Oregon coast, in favor of life in the small nearby town of Tillamook as a member of a drug culture. I stayed in a trailer for three days with a mother and son who were, it came to strike me, lying criminals I could not trust. I went back to my brother.
Now, however, I once again find myself filled with pain and anguish.
Chaos worries me. Order loathes me.
I do not think a catalog of aimless thoughts is what I want to convey.
I have money to buy a mobile home, where I would probably redouble my isolation but where I at least would escape my brother's emotional absence.
I know I have abilities which are not limited to incessant wallowing in pain.
To escape pain I HAVE TO ASSERT PEACE. I do not see how submitting to a psychiatric work regimen reflects my values or needs. Still I must work. I chose to eat a dinner presented to me in the lobby of my former apartment building as a humiliation by Tracy, the woman I have shared meth with for the last four months. I did not stand up for myself then. Is there still a possibility that -- no, I am all words.
The cops stupefy me.
There's god in my body. My family works.
