Making Myself at Home

What I do to take care of my brain has some wild side effects. Sometimes they come around and sometimes they don’t.

In the more than a decade I’ve been practicing this art, I’ve learned to live with and overcome most of the side effects.

One of the most dangerous side effects can be a change in the way my body deals with heat. It can delay sweating, let the body temperature rise slightly, and then sweat later out of sequence. I’m sure it would be possible to suffer some sort of heat stroke in there. Don’t worry. I could be making a case of weird sweating when it’s not hot sound more sexy and dangerous than just being sweaty. (I’m dramatic that way.)

I do not stink, ever.

The point of this posting was to admit that I’ve never made myself at home. I tried to make a home for #1 when she moved to town. She installed a little shelf above our bed and put some creepy, golden-colored clown dolls on it. Then I realized it was her home, but I was happy to share it with her.

She always decorated for seasons and holidays. It was nice.

I always rolled my eyes when it was time to get the Christmas tree out.

Now I miss it.

I’ve never put up a tree in my own apartment.

#2 insisted on putting up a little Christmas tree.

I rolled my eyes.

Now I miss it.

I’ve never hung a picture in my own apartment.

#2 put up pictures all the time, including some of mine.

I rolled my eyes whenever we went to a drug store or dollar store and she had to look through the picture frames to see if there was a design she didn’t have. And then she would by 14 frames and I would roll my eyes.

Now I miss it.

She like to cut pictures of animals out of books and magazines to put in the frames if she didn’t have any new family pictures. We had pictures of wolves up, mostly. I rolled my eyes.

Now I miss it.

She didn’t have a lot of pictures of her kids and I didn’t have a lot of pictures of my kids. We didn’t get to see any of them. She did get to see her daughter, who was on her own, but her daughter lived many states away.

I love her daughter, but as #2 and my relationship broke down, mainly because of my self-hatred, I fought with her as well as #2. She hates me. I don’t blame her.

I’ve never made a home anywhere and I refuse to start in this apartment.

This is not where I’m supposed to be.

I might be tempted to make a home with the first woman I can tell my whole truth about and she doesn’t think I’m participating in some sort of psychotic delusion.

Time is running out though. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to die.

I was hoping I would find that woman while I was penniless and homeless.

I might have.

Every woman I’ve ever been with has been broken at one time or another. For two of them, I made things worse, eventually. I helped them in the beginning, but ended up breaking myself and there was collateral damage.

#3 was strong enough to tell me to get lost. This was probably the greatest thing someone has done for me. She’s a strong cookie, #3.

This new one is, well, new. She’s young. She’s perfect. She’s like made of fine China folded and wrapped into a perfect little flower.

People have a way of taking what I say to them and letting it go directly into their brain.

I’ve been checking. I play little games by saying odd things to strangers and then returning six or eight weeks later to see if they remember, and they always do.

Recently, a person I hadn’t seen for two years didn’t remember my face until I said the exact same thing to her: “My fake name is Jerry Wallace.”

I wear a Cookie Monster shirt around.

The power to communicate may be a gift, may be a skill, may be a secret, super power. It can also be a nightmare if used for badness.

I’ve said things in such a way, with such expressions on my face, that these things have terrified people.

So I’m tempted not to be around anyone for such long periods of time as would be required to properly make a home with my new friend.

I absolutely will not hurt her. And to keep from hurting her will possibly mean not being with her. This is my loss, and not hers.

I am the alpha male in the universe right now, but I would still like her to have someone better.

Besides, I’m 13 years older than her. When she’s 50, just reaching her stride, I’ll be 63 years old. 63 isn’t that old. Ok, when she’s 60, in command of the world, I’ll be 73. That’s pretty old, I don’t know.

If she’s with me, she’s going to miss out on all the scary excitement of figuring out life with someone her own age who doesn’t know much either.

If she decides she wants a child then she’s going to miss out on the frustration and terror of not knowing what to do (because I know what to do).

I can’t put everything off much longer. There’s something magical about my birthday this year.

The business plans are absolutely perfect. The whole system over ten years will touch a trillion dollars and will direct hundreds of billions to uses as we choose.

I’ve been tested over and over again. I used to fail these tests, but I’ve learned, and now my largest Investor has committed. Ok, He knew in the Beginning, but it took time before I was willing to believe. I was looking for Him at my computer. And He found me. I made a Choice. And I Believe.

I may live in hotels. I love hotels.

It’s like I have something in my head of value and it must be delivered.

I love room service.

What’s weird is, there are stories out there. Little bits of them refer to me.

Of course, I’m prone to draw wild connections between things that to others seem unrelated. This is my Gift (to you). 🙂

No one could see how they refer to me, because there are details in them — positions of items in the rooms — the way things were said — that were placed and done in a way so that they would trigger a memory… and tell me that I’m not crazy.

Oh, the people who made these movies have no idea why these things were done that way. They were just ideas that popped into their heads.

Where do you think ideas come from??!?!

Where do you think mine come from!?!?

You think I write computer programs? No, I just think about programs I need or want, the ideas form, and then I type them into the computer. It’s easy.

You think Mozart wrote music? No, he just sung music in his head and it formed and then he wrote it down.

You think that’s air you’re breathing?

Mozart died young. What a tragedy, not! He went home, folks!! It was only a tragedy for your ears, but I think he left enough behind. He was tortured so he was blessed with an early release.

God has an awesome way of doing things like that.

He knows anyone I would tell would tell me that I was crazy. He knew that eventually people in white coats would help me not be crazy. Funny, doctors could never cure me because there is no cure for the truth. 🙂

Of course, in some iterations of the story, I did believe I was crazy and then refused to believe, and all was lost and the story had to be rewritten.

This story is my story. This universe is between my ears. This universe ends at my death, but then is rewritten, born again, improved, eventually perfect.

Look behind you!!

Made you look!!

I love you.