If someone is struggling, don’t hand them a gun with a bullet in it. They might shoot you before working out it was meant for themselves….
My year has sucked arse with exceedingly hot chilly in it.
Cannot see kid, powerless and unable to make my own decisions on anything, getting fucken grief off everyone I know when I even try to do something half decent and every cunt out there remembers one little shitty thing, not a hundred good ones.
And, at the end of the day, we all struggle.
I admit to struggling more than ever this year. Age is a part of it, sore back, thinning hair, overwhelming sense of having missed life and love.
Have been saying this a lot lately… “I am fucked..”
And I am.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. Has been a whole life since my last confession… So here goes fuckall…
Started smoking again after seven years of non smokerville. Have a huge hole in me that am trying to fill with unhealthy doomed relationships… Can totally understand sex addicts… Put it that way…
Having moved out of the “big smoke” to a little place in the country ten kilometres from the nearest shoppe’s, loneliness set in, just like being stuck in a small flat by myself for three months. My only “friend” up this way soon turned into a stress. I only had her, and she knew it. Soon I did not want to see her any more as she was only showing up once a week to work on her car and then would not eat or drink water in the sun and refused to listen to any help offered. I met a friendly lady at the supermarket and found myself in a confusing old fashioned love triangle that should not have been. She swore black and blue she was not seeing the father of her kids. I don’t mind if she was just using me for attention from him. If only she would have been honest about it.
Having been just released from custody and being on twelve month intensive supervision through the probation service having a fight and ending up in jail again was not the best course of action.
But it is what happened. I am back home now, but with no friends or support within a 100km. The young girl has found someone else (not hard for a damn pretty and energetic young girl, let’s face it) and me, being me, is truly happy for her. Honestly, for so many reasons….
Conversely it makes me unhappy. She could be doing so many things. Creative and thoughtful things. But appears to be still too interwoven into “gangsta” land….. Never mind… Her life… Not mine….
So, father, I did some damage to someone. I don’t ask their forgiveness, but would like to apologise and try putting things right. The system (Police) just want me in jail. But how does that help the victim? I cannot do anything for them from jail.
So, life. Has gone WORSE to WORSE.
Am lost. Do not know who I am any more. If one person appreciates my efforts it astounds. One hundred good things are outweighed by one bad.
The scales of justice and human perception are truly fucked.
Therefore, so am I.
AFTER coming up here to escape drama and trouble, Narcotics Anonymous “re-acquaintanced” itself with my goodself. Have been to a camp out, and was really enthusiastic about a few of the smaller meetings in places like Palmerston North and Foxton. These have proven very useful to me, and me to them in some instances.
My higher power sometimes works well. There are multiple instances, but here is one…
A lady whom I really appreciate in her efforts with me and other struggling addicts fronted up when she heard the judge had confined me to my home, NOT to enter the local township (the only road from my place goes to the town, btw!) and that there was no provision for attending N.A or other supports. The judge, the police and the lying informants are setting me up to fail. This lady, same age as me (just saying) sends me a text saying she is at the Palmy North Christmas Majic show. Having nothing better to do for my happiness deficit that is life, I drove there. The very long way around so as to only skirt the local town by a few hundred metres, of course…
I get to the show and park right at the entrance, not knowing if it costs or anything. It costs $5 to get in, which I pay with a twenty.
I am thanking my higher power for cheering me the fuck up a little and show the couple running the stall my neck tattoo… My signature… For, fuck me and my higher power, the first stall I see at the show is this….
Yuhp. Go tell that to the grandkids.
But wait, there’s more…
Was not contemplating buying one of these things, but was interested enough to take the photo… The man behind me at the gate comes running with a new $10 note grasped in an outreached hand…
“Sir, sir – You dropped this $10 note”.
The sign said “THREE LITTLE ONES FOR TEN BUCKS”
So, thanks to the lady who runs the candy floss truck, there was some good to come of the day out the house. Upon my return to put the little shrooms next to some plants on my porch, the chickens ran out to great me.
“Food, food” they screamed in the annoyingI, for the first time in a month, found a nest full of eggs. 11 of them. Hidden between house and flowers – the dark patch in the picture…
Thank you for the Candy Floss and Foxton Fizz. You made my day.
BLOODY FACEBOOK! There is a use for it after all.
During the course of writing all this crap on the Worlds Shittest Blog (TM) there have been various outstanding members of the community at large whom have seen fit to contact me. Some of the favourites are people from the past.
Am not really the sort of chap to go for the absolute poshest club known to Wellingtonians… Since he is a member and all that, I convinced myself to put my obvious socialist leanings to one side and enter the lair of right wingers. Just for a moment.
After having a very enjoyable hour long light brunch with a man whom earns more each day than I do in an entire year (yes, it was his shout) we decided to do it again.
Well, my old Fiend, I have asked you about 2% of the four thousand questions I have for you. Therefore we need to do this again. Next time we will set aside a proper lunch or dinner.
… If you have four thousand questions, I have at least sixteen thousand answers…. Some of which will even sway you from your belief the economy is the answer to everything. In fact, in less than five minutes there was some interest in an alternative point of view.
ADHD is everywhere.
The economy is not going to fix that.
There is a use for it after all.
A really old friend / flame / hair freak contacted me.
So fucken stoked…
Thought this, and a lot of my other work, was gone forever.
Probably would prove less detrimental not to admit this, but….
Put it this way, if SLEDGE HAMMER did not have such a profound effect on me, the NZ POLICE may not hate me as much….
.^^ OLD SKOOL GAMEPLAY..
Today was spent doing court imposed community work for an event that found me guilty of something very debatable and arguable.
I am kind of fed up with this situation.
This person (MM, coz she eats so many MM’s) says shit, the police believe her, and I end up in a pile of shit.
She is now saying that I have been drugging girls,
dragging them home and raping them whilst they sleep.
Some people probably believe her. According to her “everyone knows what you [I] are”… She then listed specifically the good people at some mental health trusts (Kites), the District Health Board (CCDHB) and the Wellington Benefit Rights Service (as paid for by Sue Bradford, GREEN MP, Wellington….)
But, bugger them with a large pitchfork, the police don’t.
Once I heard the news of this latest ill gotten rumour, I raced straight to the police.
Walking into the major central police station and demanding they take my photos, take my DNA, and show my photo to every single woman whom has complained of any form of sexual assault in the last fourty years in New Zealand is probably worthy of writing about in more detail. I demanded to be prosecuted to the extent of the law.
After an hour of this, the police woman whom had taken me into a private room (sexual crimes of this nature are, quite rightly, frowned upon) basically got fed up and kicked me out.
FUCKEN USELESS. Really did try to get arrested for this.
I think I may hand myself in to Rosie Edwards, Clarissa, John and Tom at the CCDHBDSM. Obviously I am falling asleep at night, turning into Mr Hyde, and having my way with the late nite party goers of Wellington.
If anyone has seen me in bars in the wee hours, please phone police straight away.
For I don’t drink, smoke or have any stupefying drugs.
Although, given the state of these affairs, I may just take the drugs.
A year ago today saw a post right here called Valentines Doornails.
It had a specially created graphic. I went and got a syringe, pulled some blood into it out my own arm and then sprayed it around a dying rose flower.
Something like this…
Stop holding your breath.
This year you lot get nothing.
Fifty Shades of Grey, my ass. I have spent time (quality time) with various females whom have read this book. Sounds like Mills n Boon with a couple of extra props to me. Yawn.
Lately I have been getting a few tattoos. I dropped a car gearbox on my forearm two days ago.
I am in danger of falling in love with the girl whom hits the bruise on my forearm with a closed fist as hard as she can. In danger of falling for the girl whom is so open and obnoxious in public that she could compete with me. (And that really is something…) The girl whom sees a new tattoo, grabs it, hits it, scratches her fingernails down it, and then cares for it with all the tender care of a mother caring for a new born.
The girl whom…. Well, fuck, we enjoy each others company greatly. A hugely dangerous and problematic time approaches all too rapidly.
She has left me with fifty shades of black and blue.
Think it has to end. She claims she is a good friend.
I have yet to see it.
Hell of a lot of fun maybe.
But good? Not on your life.
“Chronic pain, as we know, serves no obvious beneficial biological function. In The Culture of Pain (1993), David B. Morris characterised chronic pain as a state as different from acute pain as is cancer from the common cold. In The Pain Chronicles, Dr Clifford Woolf, a Harvard professor of neurobiology, described chronic pain as ‘a terrible, abnormal sensory experience, pathological activity in the nervous system’—confirming that chronic pain not only defies pain’s evolutionary warning and protective mechanisms, but also, in outliving its original function, becomes a pathological condition of itself. Unlike acute pain, writes Morris, the wearying constancy of chronic pain, upon both the sufferer and the ‘patience and goodwill’ of friends and carers, ‘constitutes a radical assault on language and on human communication’. This is a complex pain, personally, medically, socially. It wears on long after an injury or disease has been treated or has apparently healed, with no end in sight. It is, therefore, life changing: a debilitating state of elusive diagnosis, failed intervention and irreversible tissue impairment. At its most consuming, it is akin to the pain of terminal disease, without the heroic ‘combative image’ and prospect of final easement. An authority on pain research, James L. Henry, has reported research that shows chronic pain as second only to bipolar disorder as a cause of suicide.” (How Does It Hurt, p13) —
I, too, am a bona fide sufferer of chronic pain. A strange kettle of fish.
I suggest going and getting a heavy handed tattooist to find some sensitive bits and work on them.
Having a pain may not help the pain go away.
But it sure does divert it for an all too brief moment.
Serenity is being tattoo’d in the armpit.
Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked.
A post yesterday contained some graffix produced by my good self in relation to DRUG ADDICTION RECOVERY and what it means for a service provider and a service user in the environment of our absurd Recovery Industry 2.0 and the medical model of ADDICTION = [medical] DISEASE.
I use “[medical] DISEASE” purely so as not to get into tertiary arguments with people over meaning of “dis” and “ease”.
Really, go away.
No, really. Piss right off. Go tell God I am a Sinner, Left Handed Bugger.
Within the first few months of stopping, after struggling to work out whom I am (what is it we are recovering from?) it was time for me to work out whom I wanted to be (what are we recovering to?….)
It is no measure of recovery to join, and blend into, a sick society.
For the millionth time, BRUCE K. ALEXANDER’s “Globalization Of Addiction” is available at most libraries now.
You should be saying “”Thanks NZFIEND. “”
“Thank me by reading it FFS.”
..”& just what
prey tell Mr Narcisist NZ Fiend
are you recovering to?”..
The worlds best Dad would be a bloody good start. Wellington’s best delinquent kids football coach. A half decent advocate for addiction (dis) services clients. A reliable friend. A good neighbour. A creative soul.
And, after that little list, maybe even become someone else’s “better half”.
But, right now? Right now I would settle for being a good Dad and creating a half decent soul.
Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked. Violence. Domestics. Kids screaming whilst Mum and Dad abuse and hit each other at 4am…. Birth Mum told to fuck off. Fists. Weapons. Sore heads. Going on drug hunts. Insane driving.
I have books and research on all these topics. From very dirty fighting techniques (had nose or ear bitten off lately?, thanks Dave Courtney) through to how to a brilliant guide on how treat your missus like shit and yet she will still cook you those fucken eggs (Once were Warriors by Alan Duff).
Spending my NZ Government sickness benefit on anything other than limited amounts of mediocre quality food for daughter and me is a big deal. Gabor Maté’s “In the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts” was worth every single lost calorie. I was broke addict struggling to understand. I now understand. I am a broke addict.
Hoary Maori BBQ’s. They will get drunk, hit, complain, abuse, intimidate. All amongst themselves. But, when outside my window at 2am, it starts involving me.
Skinny arse junkies will hang out. Whine and moan. Do nothing about it in a positive manner. Start begging at my door. Therefore, involving me.
And, yet, in between it all… Some very good conversation and intellectual progress (on an occasional tertiary level – BEAT THAT!)
Yesterday, attempting to explain proved fruitless.
There were no vegetables in the vicinity. My ADHD writing, therefore, was also devoid of vegies… Quit for the day, vegetableless and fruitless.
Which is close to happening again write at this very moment.
When having less is not more.
Having more ADHD occasionally results in less. Having more PAIN. More STRESS. OBLIGATIONS.
More or less.
I can hear my Spiritual Advisor ™ cringing loudly from a kilometre away.
“JUST STOP IT”
She is probably screaming between eyes screwed shut.
DEEP BREATH. BREATHE. CENTRE. Relax. Repeat keyword.
Time for some music. Time to get on with it.
Time is hitting me in the backside.
It is beginning to itch.
I Wanna Be Well.
Quoting from above…
“Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked. Violence. Domestics. Kids screaming whilst Mum and Dad abuse and hit each other at 4am…. Birth Mum told to fuck off. Fists. Weapons. Sore heads. Going on drug hunts. Insane driving.”
If I was ever on a TV news show without having to be violently arrested during some outrageously fortunate (and purely co-incidental) bDSM-V’ing featuring a leather clad Clarissa Broderick ejecting me from the Mein Street Addiction (Dis)Services complex it may go something like this…
“So, you, NZFiend, had a bad day starting early in the morning of Friday..?”
Why, yes John. It was pretty lousy. Not the worst, but pretty lousy.
“Without trying to sound too much like a registered shrink of highest magnitude, could you tell me, and the viewers, more. In your own words, your own time. TV3 is tightening my budget, so just talk away. We may edit it later, but really don’t have the cash…”
Wow. You will wish you didn’t say that shortly. Just don’t pretend you’re a doctor and try to tell me your historic and incorrect views of addiction.
“You’re wasting time……”
Oh, right you are. It all started around midnight. Put a DVD on that had taken me three or four sittings to get to half way. Did I mention my ADHD issues John?
“Oh for fucksake……”
Sorry John, won’t happen again. Will try staying on track…. What was it you asked again? Ahh right. Yeahp. Riiiigggghhhtt……………
Was watching a DVD at midnight…
Although falling asleep whilst having THE RAMONES END OF THE CENTURY DVD playing loudly on the TV, got rudely fucken awoken about 2am by some 100kg Maori biatches slapping and cursing each other. Disappointingly normal behaviour in this small enclave of under educated, yet over drugged, misfit abodes.
Unfortunately for me the human brain does not really differentiate between physical pain and mental pain. Whomever said “sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me” was either deaf or stupid. Or, most likely, selling some sort of religion with large tithe’s.
Other peoples stuff effects us. How can it not?
At two in the morning someone must have rung noise control or police or something. After yelling out the window for them to “please quieten down your over assertive use of language” peace was restored.
“Honestly, that is the most shit story I have ever heard………”
Sorry John, you’re quite right…. An hour later, after sleeping some more and hearing some quite funny tough guy Te Reo along the lines of ….
“Ay bro, fucken sum1 narkd on uz cuz. fuk if i fiund owt hooo da fuk narkd on uz cuz. gonna fuk dem up broz. fucken a cuz. yo fuk wotch.” (those who know the awesome sound of real Te Reo will be astounded to know these Maori speak closer to L.A Gang, but with the rythum and speed of Bob Marley on valium. Try this for an example…. NZ, you rock!)
… the mummy and the daddy start slapping each other in the apartment just across from mine. Kid is screaming. Everything is turning to shit. This happens very often. Cops may have arrived. Punches may have been thrown.
I don’t know what happened. I just turned up my favourite Jew gone bad and listened to some good lyrics…
“You mean Jesus? The jew gone bad, right? Out-stanndd-ingg”
You old git. You know damn well I meant Jeffry Hyman of Queens, New York whom became JOEY RAMONE?
Stop trying to upset me John… The DVD stopped and you could not block out the noise. Hearing kids screaming and slapping and punching going on is not good.
And then my head went to other places. My own upbringing. At least this kid knew its Mum and Dad. At least he knows his heritage. He will probably turn out better than me.
I text my Mum with “Not even so much as a text or facebook for your only son and grand kid over Christmas and New Year?“
She replied very rudely with some good lines about “get off your high horse“, “anger management classes“, “I will send your daughter something for her birthday”
My own “mum” doesn’t tell me she is in Wellington staying at a motel just down the road for the WORLD OF WEARABLE ARTS SHOW and goes home without even a cuppa with her only offspring… This “mum” who… Well… Fuckit. I am over it.
She finishes the text by saying “DO NOT REPLY“.
Fuck you Mum. Here’s twenty replies. Inclusive of ten variations on “fuck off and die” and ten with variations of “if you go behind my back and contact my child I will actually be angry.”
Don’t know how much you believe in attachment theory and how it relates to ADHD, but there are many and comprehensive studies suggesting such things. Check out my own thoughts in LEFT HANDED IS A CURSE FROM THE DEVIL.
So, the day got off to a good start.
May save the stories about driving, drug quests and others for another day. More likely, they will never see the light of day. But, then again….
“Wonder if the TV3 executives will resort to crowd funding to get this crap edited…………”
My mate died recently. He really liked the Ramones too. Another mates ex missus was mates with this mate. Another mate, whom lives in the apartment two over from me, knows this other mate. Our mate plays in a band. And the other mate is an old bikey gang guy. Another guy has heaps of dodgy tattoo’s and has spent years in jail.
Ooops. Come to think of it. Pretty much everyone in this story has dodgy tattoo’s, jail time and very few teeth. Other than the band member guy. Even the girls in this story have no teeth and shocking tattoo’s. Even tho they are still sexy as all buggery.
“Your Spiritual Advisor ™ will whip your ass for that comment…”
I will deal with that, thanks [winks]…
Years ago someone was murdered. The kids of this person had attachment problems all right. Mainly due to the plain fact their caregiver was now dead.
My mates other mates mate mate sells some crystal meth from time to time. My other mates mate mate ex-missus was being put down. So my mates mate went and had a word to my other mates old mate. One guy was acting pretty cool, getting pavlova out the fridge and sitting there eating loudly.
Rather than try and explain “mates mate mate” we will simply say “person A” huh?
A was eating loudly being the man
B was sitting elsewhere
C was sitting there
D was my mates mate (oops) with a bit of a grudge.
A had been saying a few things about C ending up like the murdered person whom was murdered about fifty metres away from where I am writing this…
D did not like A for selling shitty drugs. D also goes way back with C.
A started acting all strange, hitting D‘s knuckles with his head whilst laying in a foetal position on the ground doing something similar to crying. A fifty year old biker with jail tattoo’s all over him was laying on the ground hitting his head repeatedly into the floor and D‘s closed hand when an even stranger thing happened.
B came out of nowhere and at about that time a hammer hit the back of D‘s head.
Personally, I have purchased shitty drugs from the area before too. Having consumed them with the dead guy – although still alive at the time – the dead guy then didn’t want to pay me for the drugs he consumed with me. The dead guy knew A too. The dead guys house contained some metal artifacts capable of projecting projectiles rapidly in a forward motion. Some of these things may, or may not, have been pointed at good old NZFiend during some disputes that followed. Only made peace with dead guy a few months before his death. Person C may have been at his deathbed. Person D … Well..Knowing him as well as I do… Really asking him to go easy on person B. Even employedperson B as a builders labourer. He was useless with a hammer. Which shows in the lack of impact he had on D‘s shaved head.
B should really not have done this. B is in no way a tough guy. Hell, he can hardly swing a hammer. He has trouble enough brushing his own hair.
Yet, hair we have it. Gave B a lift home from the supermarket after getting a tattoo done last week. He really should not have got involved with all the other mates mates mate mate problems.
The other mate matey mate (D) is more of a genuine tough bastard. He is now not happy, understandably, with having a hammer dropped on his noggin.
Personally, I can totally relate to this. Having been hit from behind with a 4×4 foundation post, a three foot long plumbers crescent, a hammer and a bottle. After being stabbed. After being on wrong end of guns… Well. I feel D‘s pain and annoyance. At least it wasn’t the police with the guns mate. They are the scariest bunch of people when they get their tools out. They are not calm. They are, frankly, a danger to themselves and the public at large.
So, after all this, D gets E to contact good ol’ NZFIEND and look for some crystal meth’. I drive there. I drive here. I drive every-bloody-where. I don’t ask for money. It is a good deed.
Part of my HARM REDUCTION strategy. Harm reduction of a most grass roots nature. Something that the doctors and idiots at chemists, doctors offices, drug treatment centres and N.A would never understand.
For I really do care.
Doctors and addiction centre workers… Workers the world over… They do not understand that lives like mine do not revolve around set routine. I do not get up at 7am, go to the office, and come home five or six days a week. Collecting medication at an exact amount, at an exact time will not work for us. Complete abstinence will not work for us.
Drugs, when and how we need them. Just like any person in the world. The opportunity for us to be part of this normal medical model was taken away from us the moment we presented with “addiction” or “dependence” issues. We show up in need of painkillers with a bone sticking out our skin and they will only give us panadol. Did these people ever read the Hippocratic oath. “First do no harm” (Latin: Primum non nocere) originated with the 19th-century surgeon Thomas Inman, not the good old Hippocrate at all.
Most drugs are given on a “take two pills, when and if required” basis. As soon as you’re an addict, or mentally deficient in the eyes of the capitalist medical system, you must take EXACTLY 51mg’s of this and 62mg’s of that at 8:57am. Forget the fact that you are busy one day. And sitting on your arse another. You are awake all night dealing with girls and drama one night. The next tossing, and sometimes turning, yourself to sleep and you don’t wake until midday. After that you have to drive to the middle of nowhere to comfort an overdose victims grieving sister for a day. You miss your 8:57am appointment with the drug hander over people and you get into trouble……
HEY, ARE YOU AWAKE?
“zzzzzzz…… zzzzzzzzzzzz…. wh-whatt? oh shit….. En-thrallll-innnngggg…..”
Here I am. Here we are. I have been having very little sleep this week. A lady came over one night resulting in about one hours slumber. Then various parties in near apartments. Then I had to look after a girl whom turned up at midnight, just as going to bed. And that meant no sleep, no sex, no drugs. No rock n roll. Just listening and making appropriate noises until the men with the white coats could take her away. Advocacy and caring is not for me full time John. I take it too seriously. Then… Well… Whatever. You get the picture.
“If a picture told a thousand words, would it shut you up?……”
Now now John. Here’s $5 for some video editing time…. Can we blank out all the references to real people John?
“What, all that crap wasn’t just made up……”
No, John. That isn’t even the half of it.
“Fac-sin-nate-innnngggg…. I was afraid of that……”
(anonymous is something Narcotics Anonymous should actually practise – they could learn from me John… When saying “My mates mate mate mates cousins mate ex girlfriend….” you would never guess I am talking about the girl whom is arriving on a bus and staying the night tonight.)
Sorry John, that has to be the end of the stories for now. I need to find some way of getting veges for the dinner she is cooking.
These stories make me think.
And that is not such a bad thing.
The day was not fucked. The day was an experience.
My input, help and mitigation helped others experience of that day be less harmful. Without being able to talk about so many things, I am proud of some things that day.
Not so much the dealings with my undiagnosed mother.
And how all this helped me become a slightly better Dad?
I believe in miracles…. Ramones again.
For I have made a ringing noise in my ears get louder and my ability to hear even less during the course of writing these three thousand words. http://youtu.be/V1VczvVrD_I
LOST SOUL from DOOM game.
Played this one a lot. A hell of a lot.
Queenstown, New Zealand.
Listening to Nirvana the whole time.
Am I a lost soul? Aren’t we all?
As I worked out as a ten year old, we are all walking through life backwards. You can only see where you have been, not the road ahead. Where you have been may suggest what is happening behind you, but as you walk backwards there is no certainty as to what your feet will land on.
I should have been a messiah.
Standing outside the tattoo shoppe after two hours of some of the worst pain (both from back and tattoo) imaginable, a person whom works for Addiction DisServices walks past, see’s me and nods like a friend.
Dude, you are not a friend. My two friends who died of cancer think you’re a retard. My other friend whom has cancer thinks you’re something even worse.
Personally, I think that if you nod and smile at a guy with blood spewing down his chest whom you know writes about you online, you should at least have the balls to stop and talk.
It may just do you some good.
Maybe will let you know when I am back in the tattoo shoppe having the shading and everything done. I will be dead useless for a few hours during this process, but you can wait….. Just like you make the poor people on your addiction (dis)service do daily.
Thankfully, I am not one of them.
Here’s me, sometimes I even smile.
You, being bigger, taller, heavier and
fitter than I should have nothing to fear.