Type Two Diabetes

I’ve been living with type 2 diabetes since about my mid-twenties. When I was initially diagnosed, my average blood sugar was between three and four hundred–enough to put a man in a coma.

Since then, concerning the illness, I’ve gone from nonchalance to acceptance to resistance.

There is no cure for type two diabetes. Once you have it, you’re stuck with it. However, it is manageable.

Failure to manage your diabetes, or keep your blood sugar in check, can lead to severe blood circulation disorders, which can cause heart disease. Another possibility is diabetic neuropathy, which means the nerves in your body die off. Essentially, you lose your ability to walk. You lose your ability to see. You may lose your ability to hear.

Then you lose your life.

Ultimately, that is the end result of this disease, which has no cure. It kills you.

If you’re a type two diabetic, it means that your body cannot produce enough insulin to work with all of the sugar passing through your bloodstream. At this point, consider the sugar like a slow-working acid consuming you from within. One of your body’s last-resort defense mechanisms for your blood sugar being too high is to shut down until it comes down on its own. This is why you may feel sleepy after too much food. When T2 Diabetes is left unchecked for too long, this occasionally results in a diabetic coma. This, as you can imagine, is about a serious as it gets.

At first, I couldn’t have cared less when I was first diagnosed (the whopper was not something I was willing to part with). As I learned what this disease would do to me if I didn’t keep it in check, I decided to make some changes.

You need to know that you can beat this thing back. It’s not impossible. It’s difficult, but it’s not impossible.

Without medical insurance or any sort of medication, I reduced my blood sugar two hundred points in one year by developing a routine and sticking to it. I’m walking proof that it can be done.

You can Google type 2 diabetes and come back with a host of results that will get you started, and you should consult your physician before making any major changes. That being said, this is what I do.

1). Exercise
Aerobics is the greatest enemy type 2 diabetes has, because it increases your circulation. You should be doing something from the moment you get up in the morning; not only does it wake you up, but it improves your blood circulation immensely. You don’t have to do something hardcore from the moment you roll out of bed. Five minutes of jogging in place, jumping  jacks, or shadowboxing will do just fine. Anything to get you just a little winded.
Getting your weight down will also allow blood to travel more freely through your system, which will greatly reduce your blood sugar. This is my five-minute routine in the morning. Stretch first. Seriously. Trust me on this.

1). Ten axe kicks, each leg (throw your leg straight into the air, as high as you can).
2). Thirty jumping jacks (Three equal one)
3). Ten jab-reverse combinations (switching sides)
4). Shadowboxing

If you have a job that has you sitting a lot, you should get up every half an hour, and for five minutes, get your blood pumping. Jog in place. If you talk on the phone, walk around while you talk instead of sitting down. Little changes like this go a long way.

2). Eat Right
Okay, I’m going to admit that this part bloody sucks at the beginning. You have to give yourself time to get used to it…but yeah, I’m not going to lie to you, this was the hardest part of it for me.
I’ve learned a lot along the way, though. Cinnamon actually reduces blood sugar and goes great in coffee. Swap out sugar for sweetener in everything and you will start to feel results in weeks. Develop a routine for your body. It’s often debated that you can eat three regular, balanced meals, or several smaller meals throughout the day. Both methods work, but talk to your doctor and figure out which one works for you. Whichever you decide, stick with it. I avoid most pastas and breads because they take a long time to digest, resulting in a spike in blood sugar.

My typical meals involve oatmeal for breakfast (which also brings down cholesterol), pizza soup or salad, and then something with baked (not fried, gotta let the fried stuff go) chicken, usually wrapped in a tortilla with cheese and vegetables.

Conclusion
Again, I stress talking to your doctor (I didn’t go into testing your blood sugar here) before changing your diet or starting an exercise routine. What I gave here is what works for me.

What I’m trying to stress is that if you have been diagnosed with type two diabetes, DON’T IGNORE IT. It’s not going to go away, and if you don’t deal with it, it will take everything from you before it takes your life.

That’s not drama, that’s truth. That’s life.

Or death.

Your call.

Pizza Soup

(Single Serving)

Prep Time: 5-15 Minutes

1 Can Condensed Tomato Soup (I recommend Great Value over Campbell’s)
5-10 Slices Armour Pepperoni
1/4 Coup Feather Shredded Mozzarella Cheese
1/2 Tablespoon Italian Seasoning (or Oregano)

OPTIONAL: 2% Lowfat Milk

In a small pot, heat soup on medium according to can instructions, using milk or water.

WHILE soup is heating, stir in Pepperoni FIRST, then add Italian Seasoning or Oregano.

Allow soup to come to a boil, stirring occasionally. Add Mozzarella cheese and allow cheese to melt into soup until it reaches your desired consistency.

Remove from heat, allow to cool before eating.

*PERSONAL NOTE*
I usually make this up with two cans, umpteen millions slices of pepperoni and a handful of shredded cheese. This fills me up for HOURS.

One can of soup has 100 calories, no fat (including trans fat) and 22 grams of carbohydrates. The pepperoni and cheese have no carbohydrates, so this is decent meal for type 2 diabetics and those looking to reduce weight.

You can heat this slowly if you have stuff you want to do while prepping, and if you heat it on high, you will have to stay with it, stirring consistently, or it’ll burn.

I prefer to start on medium, allowing the soup to get warm. I add the pepperoni and turn it up to high. I allow the cheese to completely melt (to where it has no consistency anymore) and then as the soup cools, it gets very creamy. Delicious.

I did not invent this recipe. I found it on the back of a soup can almost twelve years ago and I’ve been hooked on it ever since.

Enjoy!

del.icio.us Tags: Recipe,Pizza Soup

The Family Prayer

San Francisco, California

Fourteen Years Ago

If you catch the last train running to Colma and exit Civic Center, you may find yourself directly in front of a 24-hour Carl’s Jr. You may call it Hardees. I called it home.

There is a waist- high, gray concrete, u-shaped border that surrounds the staircase leading to and from the underground station. You could almost feel the unsettled energy as you stepped onto the red brick pavement between the train station and the restaurant, some fifteen feet to your left. By day, hundreds of tourists pass through. By night, the residents made it a battleground. It was my first.

This night, as always, the restaurant is not so busy. The truly homeless seek reprieve from the streets by hustling up enough to buy a meager burger, hoping they can sleep all night. The security guard, a robust, soulful man named Daune (pronounced Dau-Nay, but you can call him D) Paul Colvin III, usually doesn’t care about the homeless sleeping as long as they don’t stink.

As always, Daune’s post, to the immediate left of the store’s entrance, is surrounded by the usual crowd.

There’s Terry, who would be in his forties now. He was struck by a bus in his youth and lost partial use of his left side. He also had the common sense knocked out of him, you’d think, because it wasn’t uncommon to see him suck the toes of random women–before he took them home. Tall, lanky, black, eternally hilarious and relentlessly loyal, he was the mainstay of the group. His mother insisted he get out of the house each night, and he’d end up here to shoot the breeze. There were worse places to go.

Terry was also the best scrapper I’d ever seen. He could throw that left like it meant nothing. Once, during a sparring session, he knocked me straight to the ground. It was the last time I ever underestimated someone because of a physical disability. Other than myself, Terry was the butt of everyone’s jokes, but he could give it right back.

There was Chad, who, for some reason, I always likened to Guile in the Street Fighter series. Save for the hair, they could’ve been brothers, and Chad could take some monster shots. Come to think of it, when he fought, he very rarely took a step back. He never had a use for kicks, but had supreme use of his fists and no end to the amount of punishment he could take. He was my first real boxing influence.

There was Lee…and Lee, well, Lee was a trip. He was a high school teacher. He was bisexual and thought we all didn’t know (Funny story there). He was black-white, in excellent shape, very easy with the ladies and could shoot his legs to Heaven. He took me as kind of a little brother and sharpened the tae kwon do I already had. He was always smiling.

Christian was a wannabe goth, but he was one of the most decent people I’d ever met. He could only fight, but when he was angry. Then again, when he was angry, I saw him get this eerie, toothy grin that would’ve made the Joker shudder. Half-asian, six feet tall and always dressed in black. Christian didn’t fight as much as he inflicted pain on people.

Emalio, a young hustler who had endured a horrible childhood. He was quiet, shy, and the smallest of us. If you brought harm to him, you had to answer to D. You didn’t want to answer to D.

And me?
I had known the group about four months. I was the rookie, the untested one. I could fight, but these guys were on a whole other level, who happily kicked my ass repeatedly. D would randomly reach out and slap me. Didn’t matter where I was in proximity to him. He always a polite little smack upside the head. When I learned to block, it didn’t make a difference. D was an aikido expert. He taught me well.

So this night, things are a different. It’s Thanksgiving.
This night, we’ve all compiled our money and created one big pot to order a bunch of food. D went out of his way to inform me that my homelessness did not make me exempt. If I wanted to eat, I had to contribute. Luckily, the bang-on-the-change-machine scam had worked well that day, and I had fifteen bucks to my name.

We ordered KFC, Pizza,chinese food from right across the street, BBQ from across town, and enough stuff to where we had to unite two tables. Something for everyone.

Naturally, I was the first to reach for all of the food (slap). D ordered us all to take hands, lower our heads, and pray.
This shocked me; D was muslim, I was Christian, Chad was agnostic, and I wasn’t even sure what some of the others were. I asked D who we were supposed to pray to.
He looks me in my face and says; “Does it matter?”

I remember how good I felt when I heard that. I didn’t understand until I had seen more of the world.
We prayed. We prayed to who we believed in.
And then we ate.

The Dark

Still young, no longer so wild, I can still feel the pulse of the world when the sun takes its leave.

Life both fades and goes into overdrive. With the nine-to-fivers safely away, those that live in darkness come forth. They stick to the shadows, hoping to be seen only by those of their kind. They wish to be ignored by those who bring lights (especially lights that flash) and curry the favor of other, weaker shadow-mongers who have not yet made sense of this world.

I remember when the stronger rulers of the dark would battle each other for dominance. In those days, crowds would gather and cheer mindlessly, often indifferent to winners and losers and hoping for a spectacular show. Break his bone. Slam him into the ground. Make him scream. Make him beg. The worse the beating, the greater the dominance. The more respected the victor. I first observed this, and then put it into practice in my youth.

No matter the season, the temperature seems to dip considerably. A new set of laws are established, a set parallel and yet a very dark contrast to its sun-born counterpart. One does not call for help. One solves their own problems, by the fist or the gun. Law enforcement is often one’s friends. Those who sell their loyalty are not trusted, and their despised. If they’re strong, they see polite masks, everyone feigning respect and humor to them. It is a game; those that play this charade are waiting for a weak moment.

When it happens, it will not happen in daylight. Too many witnesses in the day. Shadows give birth to illusions. No one is quite sure what they saw. They saw something horrible. They wonder, will that person do that to me?

They will make themselves forget.

People claim a fear of the dark. It’s not the dark they fear; it is the unknown. It is the limited vision. It is the sudden noise that has no rational explanation. It is the clawing feeling at your gut that your killer may be beside your bed as you sleep.

It was the first fear I ever conquered.

I became aware of my surroundings. I learned how to function without sight. I learned how to listen, to smell, to feel. The wind shifts suddenly, you pick up the scent of something that should not be there. Brace yourself…

I learned it was not the dark to be feared. It was those that preyed in it.

And I am nobody’s prey.

The Rules

I roll out of bed this morning a little later than usual, having hit the snooze alarm in my sleep (yet again) in order to buy myself another hour under the covers. I can walk to work in about twenty minutes. I’m not worried.

Molly, who always does her best to ensure that I’m up on time, sends me one last text message as I get my day started.

”I love you Avery. Good luck.”

I’m going to need a better phone. I can’t lock every single one of her messages. With the day starting on a high note, I pull myself out of bed and ask myself, why am I so pissed off lately?

I’ve been in a real funk lately. I was able to pick up an XBox 360, and even the rampaging adventures of Ryu Hayabusa (who’s either an uber-ninja or a serial killer, depending on which side of the blade you’re on) has done little to bring me out of it. Aesthetically obliterating lives does little to alleviate my mood—although I’m loving it all the same.

I hate playing by the rules. There’s almost no payoff. The older I get, the more I realize that my father was right. The rules are set up to make you fail.

I remember running into my old boss while I was out at lunch. I spoke to be polite. He told me I’d get my job back. He volunteered this information. It never happened. There may have been circumstances I was unaware of, but since he never let me in on what those circumstances might have been, from my point of view, it looks like a lie. A lie that was totally unnecessary.

I draft an evacuation plan for the residents of the Towers. The plan is rejected, and I receive a cryptic, chilling handwritten note as to why; there is no evacuation plan in the Towers for a reason.

I go straight and narrow and cops still mess with me. When I call for help (the one and only time I’ve ever called JCPD) they advise me to avoid the situation I called them about. The quote was you might not want to do rounds on that floor for awhile. He’s really pissed off.

I walk ten miles through this city in hopes of finding a job, nothing pans out. When I finally land a job, it turns out the company overhired by thirty people. Some are immediately delayed until May. Others, myself included, have our fate decided by a performance on a written exam. If two people do equally well on this exam, then the alphabet will decide. Those with a last name closer to ‘A’ get to start Monday. The rest of us are out in the cold.

Molly is one of a few people who knows me intimately. She says I’m apathetic, and she’s probably right. Dealing with hustlers, liars, (and most recently pedophiles) will do that to you. I’ve also come to realize the damning effect of having the whole world tell you’re worse than nothing. As a kid, it was a no-win situation. I did what someone wanted and someone else got pissed off. I did what I wanted and everyone got pissed off.

Thus was born the knowledge, fuck what everyone else thinks. If I’m going to be hated, I’m going to be hated for doing something I want to do.

I take strength from being the hated one. Even when I play Madden, I play as the away team. I’m coming into your house, I’m going to play by your rules, and as your friends cheer on my destruction, I’m going to beat the dog shit out of you. Even worse, I’m going to humiliate you in the process.

My experience teaches that most people will do whatever is necessary to achieve their goal, no matter who gets harmed in the process. A refusal to inflict injury on someone makes you weak. Sometimes, I hate what I became in order to prove to the world that I was ‘tough’. I hate it even more that it was only then I was accepted. I inflicted permanent injuries and this makes me cool?!

I laid Busterwolf to rest, but the guilt is still there. I did a lot of things to people I can’t take back. I’m trying to find a way to let this go.

I’m also trying to restore my faith in people. I believe in God because He’s come through. People tend to fall unapologetically short.

I cannot stand people who bitch and moan about how the world has screwed them and when presented with opportunity, they ignore them. I don’t understand people who are incarcerated for low-level shit spend all day talking about getting out and doing the exact same thing that got them locked up in the first place. I don’t get people who feel a need to defend their beliefs by tearing down someone else’s. Why is this encouraged?

I have this theory that allows me to get along with most people. As long as you respect that fact that you’re probably not going to change my mind, I’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I may even give it a shot. I feel that as long as you’re not hurting anyone, people should be free to openly believe what they want. Seriously, who gives a flying fuck what if the person next to you is gay, Wiccan, Jewish, Republican, or screws pigs in their spare time? Is it their preference that pisses you off, or is it the fact that they’re brave enough enough to live their lives openly?

Why am I the only one who seems to think this?!

Why are the rules set up to protect those who encourage backwards ways of thinking? Why are those who dare to stand up to this persecuted, tortured, outcast, or martyred?

Maybe the rules need to change.

Think about it.

Thanks for reading.

del.icio.us Tags: Rules,Life,Change,Religion,Sexual Orientation,Incarceration

The Next Generation (Tribute)

I talk to my teenaged son, who now keeps me in the loop as to when new games are coming out. The torch has been passed. Blessedly, he seems to be pretty well-adjusted. He’s still a sweet kid, and I thank God every night for that.

About ten years back, when I was staying with my ex’s family, long before my children were born, I knew this little kid named Anthony. He was about five or six at the time. One of my first memories of this kid was coming back to my room and finding my games missing. I tracked him to his grandmother’s room where, sure enough, there there were, and there was Anthony. Nervous, knowing he had been caught, he very cautiously gave me the bird. I was angry at the time. I think it’s funny now.

Anthony hated to lose. Sometimes, I would dread playing with him, because I knew we’d be in for a screaming fit if he lost. He would cry, scream, curse, and tell you exactly what he thought of you if he lost a game. It could’ve been football or anything on a console. Anthony didn’t just didn’t like to lose.

And he was relentless. He was always at my upstairs bedroom door, asking if he could play (since I had all the games). Sometimes I let him in, sometimes not, and when I played with him, I always took it easy. No point in annihilating some little kid, right? Besides, I remember him picking things up quickly.

Eventually, he got better at losing…and he learned from his mistakes. I remember, even when he was a kid, and we were tossing around Super Street Fighter 2, he caught me off guard a couple of times and nearly took a round from me.

When I last saw him, the screaming fits had been replaced with quiet anger. He didn’t scream or cry anymore. He’d even learn to laugh it off and say ‘good game’. But there was always that rolling anger behind his eyes each time he lost. And each time he lost, I remember it got a little harder to beat him. I’d seen that before.

Fast forward to two days ago.
Imagine my surprise when I get a call from Anthony, who’s calling on the line that belongs to both his, and my kids, maternal grandmother. I knew Anthony had grown up, but I had no idea how much. I’m talking to someone who’s almost a grown man now, nearly eighteen years old. Where’s all this time going?

Anyway, he called me to tell me that he had competed in a Street Fighter 4 tournament at his local gamestop. And he won.

My jaw hit the floor and the only thing I could think of was how proud I was of him. He was even teaching Terry (my son) how to play. Terry could compete, but he’s not ready for the pros yet. I pray I get to finish what Anthony started.

It’s not over for him. Next he goes to round two, and if he wins there, he advances to state.
I have to admit a shudder. I’m the most ferociously competitive person most people know, and I used to be damn near invincible at any game I played. But that was a long time ago, and I haven’t gamed professionally in years.

It would be a trip and a half if Anthony could now, finally, do what no one else has ever been able to do; beat me at Street Fighter.
I’m not going to compete. It’s not my tournament. But I’m proud of him. It’s really cool to see everything come full circle.

del.icio.us Tags: Jefferson City,children,fight,Universal Warrior

Reinterpretation

I really wanted to throw something together at the last minute that reflected everything that’s gone on this past week. I just needed to find the right setting. I turned on “Reinterpretation” off of the stellar (and free) soundtrack to Super Street Fighter 2 Turbo HD Remix and here we go.

It always traces back to a game…

After all the drama, once again, I finished the next chapter of Universal Warrior at the last minute and got it off in time for Molly to edit before posting. I was then hit with a hard dose of reality—most of you know about it already—that sent me into a nice little depression.

What does all this mean?

This was what I kept asking myself, as, in nearly blind rage, I sent my left fist into the tile wall of my bathroom over and over and over again, until I looked to the tile and saw red. The tile hadn’t even slightly cracked, as though it was oblivious to my presence, but my knuckles had been worn down. Skin was missing.

I can see someone coming from almost a mile off. I can associate people with how they smell. I can size up people by watching them walk. I can tell someone’s lying before they open their mouth. I can take someone’s arm and sprain it, break it, or make it completely unusable for the rest of their lives.

And none of this means anything any more. The hunter has no prey.

It would be easy to say that the hunter has no place in this world, and maybe it’s true. But since I’m not going anywhere soon, my dilemma was finding the bright side. I’m not one for self-pity. I don’t have time to waste like that.

I feel like I get penalized a lot harder when I break the rules. I admit that I screwed up when I lost my job, but why is it other people did worse and were retained? I walked off of my job site to try to be there for the girl I was with at the time and I got fired. Fair enough, I broke the rules. My former supervisor was caught receiving oral gratification from an underage girl in the stairwell and he was transferred. How the fuck does this make sense?

Wait, I’ll tell you.
Had I not lost my job, I wouldn’t have been able to launch Universal Warrior, I wouldn’t have gotten into freelancing, and I wouldn’t have met Molly, whom, even if I wasn’t dating, is still one hell of an editor. Odd, but it all adds up.

So faced with the reality that I just barely edge by in a month, I was finally forced to acknowledge something I had known for awhile. It’s funny how saying something aloud makes it real.

I will be in Jefferson City for, at the very most, one more year.
If I wanted to throw everything I had into moving to St. Louis in a couple of months, I could—but it wouldn’t make any sense. At the end of this year, my credit rating will significantly improve. Opportunities will open up in January 2010. But that’s not what really got me.

My children are growing up without me. I have no one to blame but myself.
My plans don’t really change. I’m still working, I still plan to see them, when I said I would see them…the contact I have with them now if better than anything I had within the last five years. At least this way, they get to know me, and me them, a little bit before we spend time together.

Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any fucking easier to swallow.

No, it doesn’t, but this is what I have to work with, and it’s better than nothing.

I do feel, however, with Universal Warrior, my children, and this relationship I have…this is the fight of my life. It was never about anyone in the street. It was about the only things that really matter—which, I’ve long maintained, are the people who will go to the wall for you.

And I’ve never lost a fight.
So that’s the best face on a new situation, and the band plays on.

del.icio.us Tags: Jefferson City,children,fight,Universal Warrior

Primal Zen

I first discovered this mindset while practicing. Bruce Lee spoke of it often; reaction without thought. Don’t think. Feel. It becomes instinct to respond to a certain situation in a certain way. I’ve been striving at this for years, only recently did I start to understand. A punch comes, you block. You don’t think about it, you just do it. Thought requires hesitation. Hesitation forfeits advantage.

This is why I learned to run (blindly) with my first instinct. Screw who gets hurt along the way. I’m right, you’re wrong, and at the end, when everything has been wrecked, you’ll see.

I wasn’t sure how to quantify it, but it was an unsettling peace, almost like the dark side of the force. I associated people with how they smelled. Once I had that scent, I could track them anywhere. it didn’t require thought to do this, only instincts. Raw emotions. Who needs logic?

I learned to communicate without words. I’ve always found that one learns much more by observing and listening than running off at the mouth. I still believe this.

Look at my eyes. Read my body language. What do you think is on my mind?

Pay attention to someone as they walk. Within seconds, you can tell how they feel about themselves—not just generally, but at that exact point in time. When they speak, do they make eye contact? Are they shifty in their movements? Or are they fluid, decisive, and confident?

Do they know how to handle themselves?

Before I left NYC, the guy who had shown me around (and waited on the embankment when that damn train went over me) had long maintained that he had no interest in martial arts, and he had no idea how to fight. It’s a good cover; sometimes, when it’s revealed that you can fight, people want to test you. They either want to prey on you, or use you to prey on others. So I don’t blame him for keeping his mouth shut.

But we were friends. And I knew.
He had already seen me fight, we had resolved the situation we had involved ourselves in. He knew what I could do, but more importantly, he knew I was trustworthy.

So randomly, before we leave the high-priced hotel, I threw a punch his way. Nothing serious; if it had connected, I would’ve gotten his attention, but not much else.

Instinctively, his hand shot out and grasped my wrist. The look in his eyes was priceless, as though he was at a holdup, and everyone had just realized his gun was empty.

We sparred fiercely for a moment, which became a great experience with a bona-fide Kung-Fu expert. We never said  a word the entire time. Words weren’t necessary.

Anyways…logic set in about a year ago. Everything got a little crazy then, trying to adapt to everything I knew versus everything I was learning. The real world is rough.

I notice that since I have gone straight, my reflexes have dulled. At first I thought it was age, as I’m still in pretty good shape.
Instead, I find myself asking why all the time. Why do I feel a need to injure this person? Why am I doing this? What purpose does this serve?

Is there another way?

My writing is something else, though. I’ve never tried at my writing, I just do it. It’s always been that way, even before I could fight.

In fact, now that I’m older, I have found that I create the characters and their backstories (with their input) and then they pretty much do their own thing. I find myself, after a few hours, with several thousand words written. Reviewing my work often leads me to raise an eyebrow and say, “Wow, didn’t see that coming.”

When I write, I’m not conscious of the time, other people, or even my environment. I feel as though some curse may be brought upon me if I dare to step away from the keyboard before finishing the story. I end up sprinting for the bathroom when I’m finished.

The same gift I had for fighting…it’s as though it’s passed into my writing. Or it’s always been there, and I’m just now harnessing it.

This is the life I strive for…to flow freely without conscious thought, to react in the most appropriate method for situation. When I write, I want the words to flow through me, without my trying to control them. If I feel a need to raise my hands, I want to have no doubts that I have exhausted all other options. And then, I want to react in the most humane way possible.

I want to feel. Everything.

I’ve spent enough time in the darkness, and I’m really enjoying the light.

del.icio.us Tags: Zen,Primal,Bruce Lee,martial arts,writing,life,characters,backstory,feel

Life As I Play It –NOW-

It began about a month ago…by happenstance, I came across two settings prominently displayed on my CRT monitor. When I first saw them, I was stunned, because I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Avery’s Documents
Busterwolf’s Documents

Unable to take my eyes from the monitor, I took a seat at my desk and investigated further. It turned out there were entire settings devoted to both halves of my psyche. The settings weren’t so disparate as to warrant me looking into some couch time, but I did note that Busterwolf preferred Windows Media Player. Avery, me…I preferred Zune.

Most importantly…I didn’t remember setting that up.
People have told me that my eyes are different in every photograph I take. Two different people.

This isn’t going to be some long-winded drawn out BLAH about me vs. Busterwolf. That battle has been fought.

One of the vows I made in 2008 was to make it through the entire year without being arrested. It was difficult at times, I even got messed with my local law once, but I did it. I have never seen the inside of a Mizzou holding cell, and God willing, I plan to keep it that way.

Something else happened along that road, and I wasn’t even aware of it until I realized I had stopped taking so many chances…I went straight.

I found that I had a hard time blogging because not much happens to me anymore. Jefferson City is not really a town where things happen.

Switching to present tense now.

I write. I work out. I talk to my children. I have a relationship. I shop (speaking of which, this is a good week to snatch up Hamburger Helper at Wal-Mart. They tend to go on sale towards the end of the month). Oh, and I cook. I find it therapeutic…and I enjoy working with knives.

With my financial aid fiasco finally behind me, I’ll be back in school in the fall. I plan to pursue something Business Administration/Creative Writing, but I’m not sure in which order. I’m doing this because I’m sick of being broke. I enjoy business, I love writing, might as well get something on paper that says I know what I’m talking about. And, let’s be real. Wits, cunning, and drive can only take you so far. A degree can certainly increase your earning power, and I would like to have a family…

Well, it’s not just that, although I had to realize the power of an education on my own…

I have a teenage son and a very angry six-year-old. I hope that when they doubt whether or not they can accomplish something, they will be able to look at their father and say that he worked full-time while attaining a degree and gave us a good life. After being gone for so long, I owe them that.

”Hope” is a word I like the sound of. I think I’m going to start using it more often.

On a side note…HOW IN THE NAME OF CAPCOM VS. SNK DID I BECOME THE FATHER OF A TEENAGE BOY?!?!?!?!?!

I talk to him and I wonder if they make a “Teenagers for Dummies” book. Was I this monosyllabic when my mother tried to find out what was going on with me?!

He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m grateful I get to talk to him.

And then there’s my writing…which I am throwing myself into while I have the chance. I figure I haven’t much else to do now…and by the end of the year, I may be scraping for minutes to get words out of my head. Universal Warrior has a fan base, something to build from, and I will not neglect that.

So that’s it. Presuming the worst in every situation doesn’t allow for much hope, and without hope, dreams die. Instead of expecting to become someone’s adversary upon first meeting them, I present myself as I am and take things one day at a time.

I am not Busterwolf, but nor am I Iron Man, insofar as the name establishes a new identity to hide behind.

My name is Avery.

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This is Life As I Play It Now.

The Changing Of The Guard

Out of the corner of my eye, in the rear view mirror, I see the road behind me. It is littered with those I have hurt, beaten, broken, and left with nothing. Some of these people tried to hurt me, some of them did nothing but try to love me, but none of them deserved what I did to them. I look back with knowledge won by experience and a heavy heart—I am sorry.

I comb over the past a bit more and wonder…no, I dare to hope…from events long ago, the pain I’ve suffered and survived, the sacrifices I’ve made, the things I’ve lost…have I paid my price?

I look to the sky. Is it square now? Am I even? Can I trust the good things You give me…is it finally okay to stop fighting?

Hypocritical question, of sorts; is it okay to stop fighting…even though I don’t know anything else?

Everything in my possession I earned. Everything I ever held onto someone tried to take from me, and every good thing I’ve ever dared to want, I fought for all I’m worth to attain. I have felt better when I fought for the good things in my life. My father, for all his faults, was right when he said that nothing in life worth having is free.

So when something comes my way, I don’t give it a second thought, I just enjoy having it—because I worked for it.

Nothing good in life comes without a price—right?

Feeling secure enough in my current situation led me to shed the Busterwolf persona, leaving the weaker, considerably less confident Avery in his wake—and there’s a lot about the world I don’t know. For example; I haven’t the vaguest idea how to work Photoshop. Just opening the program is daunting to me.

For now. I have books.

My point is, the sheer, unadulterated confidence that came with fighting, and the ability to stare into the depths of human darkness, and come away (relatively) uncorrupted—all that’s gone now. I don’t think I’ll be on the street again, and there is no need for it.

So what now…?
How does life go on without Busterwolf?

I look upon some of the people I follow on twitter, and the people of the writer’s group, and I feel as a child among giants. If I was more active in social networking, I’d never get anything done. I only recently learned who Nancy Grace was and the inability to carry an intelligent conversation frustrates me to no end. It’s like being back to square one.

I feel as though listening to people is an excuse to cover up my lack of knowledge.

And then there’s—one more situation.
It is the one good thing in my life that I did not have to fight for.
Instead, I’m fighting an internal battle to make myself believe I’m worthy of it.

What’s the catch? What’s the drawback? Why me? Where’s the game? Where’s the shadow to the light? Where’s the lie? Where’s the–

I need to stop.

I didn’t write this blog looking for sympathy—I will come to terms with this on my own. I have too. I’m the only one who can make myself believe I’m worthy of the good that’s come my way lately.

Putting these things in writing allows me to deal with them, and as always, I hope that anyone else reading who may be going through something similar realizes that they are not alone…or those that know can pass on some advice.

Busterwolf is indeed gone, a relic of the past.

Only Avery—Iron Man—remains, and this is my ground zero. From here, up is the only direction.

del.icio.us Tags: Iron Man,Busterwolf,Avery,God,good things,past,belief